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(—4 

GEORGE  MACDONALD'S  WRITINGS. 

WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  ON  WOOD  AND  STEEL. 

"  A  mine  of  original  and  quaint  similitudes.  Their 
deep  perceptions  of  human  nature  are  certainly  remark- 
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The  Vicar's  Daughter.     An  Autobiographical  Story. 

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GUILD    COURT 


A  LONDON  STORY 


By    GEORGE    MAC   DONALD 

Author  of  "ANNALS  OF  A  QUIET  NEIGHBORHOOD,"   "THE  SEABOARD 
PARISH,"   Etc.,  Etc.,   Etc. 


NEW   YORK: 

GEORGE   ROUTLEDGE   &  SONS, 

9  Lafayette   Place. 

1883. 


, 


Guild  Court. 


CHAPTER  I. 


THE  WALK  TO   THE  COUNTING-HOUSE. 


o 

o 

n 


Ik  the  month  of  November,  not 
many  years  ago,  a  young  man  was  walk- 
ing from  Highbury  to  the  City.  It  was 
one  of  those  grand  mornings  that  dawn 
only  twice  or  thrice  in  the  course  of 
the  year,  and  are  so  independent  of 
times  and  seasons  that  November  even 
comes  in  for  its  share.  And  it  seemed 
as  if  young  Thomas  Worboise  had  at 
his  toilet  felt  tne  influences  of  the 
i  weather,  for  he  was  dressed  a  trifle 
more  gayly  than  was  altogether  suit- 
able for  the  old  age  of  the  year.  Nei- 
ther, however,  did  he  appear  in  har- 
mony with  the  tone  of  the  morning, 
which  was  something  as  much  beyond 
the  significance  of  his  costume  as  the 
great  arches  of  a  cathedral  upheaving 
a  weight  of  prayer  from  its  shadowed 
heart  toward  the  shadowless  heavens 
are  beyond  the  petty  gorgeousnoss  of 
the  needlework  that  adorns  the  vain 
garments  of  its  priesthood.  It  was  a  lofty  blue  sky,  with 
multitudes  of  great  clouds  half  way  between  it  and  the  earth, 
among  which,  as  well  as  along  the  streets,  a  glad  west  wind 
was  reveling.  There  was  nothing  much  for  it  to  do  in  the 
woods  now,  and  it  took  to  making  merry  in  the  clouds  and 
the  streets.     And  so  the  whole  heaven  was  full  of  church 


~ 


3 


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4:  Guild  Court. 

windows.  Every  now  and  then  a  great  bore  in  the  cloudy 
mass  would  shoot  a  sloped  cylinder  of  sun-rays  earthward,  like 
an  eye  that  saw  in  virtue  of  the  light  it  shed  itself  upon  the 
object  of  its  regard.  G-ray  billows  of  vapor  with  sunny  heads 
tossed  about  in  the  air,  an  ocean  for  angelic  sport,  only  that 
the  angels  could  not  like  sport  in  which  there  was  positively 
no  danger.  Where  the  sky  shone  through  it  looked  awfully 
sweet  and  profoundly  high.  But  although  Thomas  enjoyed 
the  wind  on  his  right  cheek  as  he  passed  the  streets  that 
opened  into  High  Street,  and  although  certain  half  sensations, 
half  sentiments  awoke  in  him  at  its  touch,  his  look  was  often- 
est  down  at  his  light  trowsers  or  his  enameled  boots,  and  never 
rose  higher  than  the  shop  windows. 

As  he  turned  into  the  churchyard  to  go  eastward,  he  was 
joined  by  an  acquaintance  a  few  years  older  than  himself, 
whose  path  lay  in  the  same  direction. 

"  Jolly  morning,  ain't  it,  Tom  ?  "  said  he. 

"Ye-es,"  answered  Thomas,  with  something  of  a  fashion- 
able drawl,  and  in  the  doubtful  tone  of  one  who  will  be  care- 
ful how  he  either  praises  or  condemns  anything.  "Ye-es. 
It  almost  makes  one  feel  young  again." 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  How  long  is  it  since  you  enjoyed  the  pleas- 
ing sensation  last  ?  " 

"None  of  your  chaff,  now,  Charles." 

"Well,  upon  my  word,  if  you  don't  like  chaff,  you  put 
yourself  at  the  wrong  end  of  the  winnower." 

"I  never  read  the  Georgics."  # 

"Yes,  I  know  I  was  born  in  the  country — a  clod-hopper, 
no  doubt ;  but  I  can  afford  to  stand  your  chaff,  for  I  feel  as 
young  as  the  day  I  was  born.  If  you  were  a  fast  fellow,  now, 
I  shouldn't  wonder  ;  but  for  one  like  you,  that  teaches  in  the 
Sunday-school  and  all  that,  I  am  ashamed  of  you,  talking  like 
that.  Confess  now,  you  don't  believe  a  word  of  what  you 
cram  the  goslings  with." 

"  Charles,  you  may  make  game  of  me  as  you  like,  but  I 
won't  let  you  say  a  word  against  religion  in  my  presence. 
You  may  despise  me  if  you  like,  and  think  it  very  spoony  of 
me  to  teach  in  the  Sunday-school,  but — well,  you  know  well 
enough  what  I  mean." 

"  I  can  guess  at  it,  old  fellow.  Come,  come,  don't  think  to 
humbug  me.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  you  don't  believe 
a  word  of  it.  I  don't  mean  you  want  to  cheat  me  or  any  one 
else.  I  believe  you're  above  that.  But  you  do  cheat  yourself. 
What's  the  good  of  it  all  when  you  don't  feel  half  as  merry  as 


The  Walk  to,  the  Counting-House.  5 

I  do  on  a  bright  morning  like  this  ?  I  never  trouble  my  head 
about  that  rubbish.  Here  am  I  as  happy  as  I  care  to  be — for 
to-day,  at  least,  and  'sufficient  unto  the  day,'  you  know." 

Thomas  might  have  replied,  had  he  been  capable  of  so 
replying,  that  although  the  evil  is  sufficient  for  the  day,  the 
good  may  not  be.  But  he  said  something  very  different, 
although  with  a  solemnity  fit  for  an  archbishop. 

"  There's  a  day  coming,  Charles,  when  the  evil  will  be 
more  than  sufficient.  I  want  to  save  my  soul.  You  have  a 
soul  to  save,  too." 

"Possibly,"  answered  Charles,  with  more  carelessness  than 
he  felt ;  for  he  could  not  help  being  struck  with  the  senten- 
tiousness  of  Thomas's  reply,  if  not  with  the  meaning  contained 
in  it.  As  he  was  not  devoid  of  reverence,  however,  and  had 
been  spurred  on  to  say  what  he  had  said  more  from  the  sense 
of  an  undefined  incongruity  between  Thomas's  habits,  talk 
included,  and  the  impression  his  general  individuality  made 
upon  him,  than  from  any  wish  to  cry  down  the  creed  in  which 
he  took  no  practical  interest,  he  went  no  farther  in  the  direc- 
tion in  which  the  conversation  was  leading.     He  doubled. 

"  If  your  soul  be  safe,  Tom,  why  should  you  be  so  gloomy  ?" 

' '  Are  there  no  souls  to  save  but  mine  ?    There's  yours  now." 

"Is  that  why  you  put  on  your  shiny  trot-boxes  and  your 
lavender  trousers,  old  fellow  ?  Come,  don't  be  stuck  up.  ■  I 
can't  stand  it." 

"As  you  please,  Charles  :  I  love  you  too  much  to  mind  your 
making  game  of  me." 

"  Come,  now,"  said  Charles  Wither,  "  speak  right  out  as  I 
am  doing  to  you.  You  seem  to  know  something  I  don't.  If 
you  would  only  speak  right  out,  who  knows  if  you  mightn't 
convert  me,  and  save  my  soul,  too,  that  you  make  such  a  fuss 
about.  For  my  part,  I  haven't  found  out  that  I  have  a  soul 
yet.  What  am  I  to  do  with  it  before  I  know  I've  got  it  ? 
But  that's  not  the  point.  It's  the  trousers.  When  I  feel 
miserable  about  myself — " 

"Nonsense,  Charles  !  you  never  do." 

"  But  I  do,  though.  I  want  something  I  haven't  got  often 
enough  ;  and,  for  the  life  of  me,  I  don't  know  what  it  is. 
Sometimes  I  think  it's  a  wife.  Sometimes  I  think  it's  free- 
dom to  do  whatever  I  please.  Sometimes  I  think  it's  a  bottle 
of  claret  and  a  jolly  good  laugh.    But  to  return  to  the  trousers." 

"Now  leave  my  trousers  alone.  It's  quite  disgusting  to 
treat  serious  things  after  such  a  fashion." 

"  I  didn't  know  trousers  were  serious  things — except  to  old 


6  Guild  Court. 

grandfather  Adam.  But  it's  not  about  your  trousers  I  was 
talking.     It  was  about  my  own." 

"  I  see  nothing  particular  about  yours." 

"That's  because  I'm  neither  glad  nor  sorry." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Now  you  come  to  the  point.  That's  just  what  I  wanted 
to  come  to  myself,  only  you  wouldn't  let  me.  You  kept  shy- 
ing like  a  half -broke  filly." 

"  Come  now,  Charles,  you  know  nothing  about  horses,  I  am 
very  sure." 

Charles  Wither  smiled,  and  took  no  other  notice  of  the 
asseveration. 

"  What  I  mean  is  this,"  he  said,  "that  when  I  am  in  a  seri- 
ous, dull-gray,  foggy  mood,  you  know — not  like  this  sky — " 

But  when  he  looked  up,  the  sky  was  indeed  one  mass  of 
leaden  gray.  The  glory  of  the  unconditioned  had  yielded  to 
the  bonds  of  November,  and — Ichabod. 

"Well,"  Charles  resumed,  looking  down  again,  "I  mean 
just  like  this  same  sky  over  St.  Luke's  Work-house  here. 
Lord  !  I  wonder  if  St.  Luke  ever  knew  what  kind  of  thing 
he'd  give  his  medical  name  to  !  When  I  feel  like  that,  I  never 
dream  of  putting  on  lavender  trousers,  you  know,  Tom,  my 
boy.  So  I  can't  understand  you,  you  know.  I  only  put  on 
such  like — I  never  had  such  a  stunning  pair  as  those — when  I 
go  to  Eichmond,  or — " 

"  Of  a  Sunday,  I  believe,"  said  Worboise,  settled. 

"  Of  a  Sunday.  Just  so.  The  better  day,  the  better  deed, 
you  know,  as  people  say ;  though,  I  dare  say,  you  don't 
think  it." 

"When  the  deed  is  good,  the  day  makes  it  better.  When 
the  deed  is  bad,  the  day  makes  it  worse,"  said  Tom,  with  a 
mixture  of  reproof  and  "high  sentence,"  which  was  just  pure 
nonsense. 

How  much  of  Thomas's  depression  was  real,  and  how  much 
was  put  on — I  do  not  mean  outwardly  put  on  without  being 
inwardly  assumed — in  order  that  he  might  flatter  himself  with 
being  in  close  sympathy  and  harmony  with  Lord  Byron,  a 
volume  of  whose  poems  was  at  the  time  affecting  the  sym- 
metry of  his  handsome  blue  frock-coat,  by  pulling  down  one 
tail  more  than  the  other,  and  bumping  against  his  leg  every 
step  he  took — I  cannot  exactly  tell.  At  all  events,  the  young 
man  was — like  most  men,  young  and  old — under  conflicting 
influences  ;  and  these  influences  he  had  not  yet  begun  to  har- 
monize in  any  definite  result. 


The  Walh  to  the  Counting-House.  7 

By  the  time  they  reached  Bunhill  Fields,  they  were  in  a 
gray  fog ;  and  before  they  got  to  the  counting-house,  it  had 
grown  very  thick.  Through  its  reddish  mass  the  gaslights 
shone  with  the  cold  brilliance  of  pale  gold. 

The  scene  of  their  daily  labor  was  not  one  of  those  grand 
rooms  with  plate-glass  windows  which  now  seem  to  be  consid- 
ered, if  not  absolutely  necessary  to  commercial  respectability, 
yet  a  not  altogether  despicable  means  of  arriving  at  such.  It 
was  a  rather  long,  rather  narrow,  rather  low,  but  this  morning 
not  so  dark  room  as  usual — for  the  whole  force  of  gas-burners 
was  in  active  operation.  In  general  it  was  dark,  for  it  was 
situated  in  a  narrow  street,  opening  off:  one  of  the  principal 
city  thoroughfares. 

As  the  young  men  entered,  they  were  greeted  with  a  low 
growl  from  the  principal  clerk,  a  black-browed,  long-nosed 
man.  This  was  the  sole  recognition  he  gave  them.  Two 
other  clerks  looked  up  with  a  good-morning  and  a  queer 
expression  in  their  eyes.  Some  remarks  had  been  made  about 
them  befere  they  entered.  And  now  a  voice  came  from  the 
penetralia : 

"Tom,  I  want  you." 

Tom  was  disposing  of  his  hat  and  gloves  with  some  care. 

"You  hear  the  governor,  Mr.  "Worboise,  I  suppose  ?"  said 
Mr.  Stopper,  the  head  clerk,  in  the  same  growling  voice,  only 
articulated  now. 

"  Yes,  I  hear  him,"  answered  Thomas,  with  some  real  and 
some  assumed  nonchalance.     "I  do  hear  him,  Mr.  Stopper." 

Through  a  glass  partition,  which  crossed  the  whole  of  the 
room,  Mr.  Boxall,  "the  governor,"  might  be  seen  at  a  writing- 
table,  with  his  face  toward  the  exoteric  department.  All  that 
a  spectator  from  without  could  see,  as  he  went  on  writing,  was 
a  high  forehead,  occupying  more  than  its  due  share  of  a  coun- 
tenance which,  foreshortened,  of  course,  from  his  position  at 
the  table,  appeared  otherwise  commonplace  and  rather  insig- 
nificant, and  a  head  which  had  been  as  finely  tonsured  by  the 
scythe  of  Time  as  if  the  highest  ecclesiastical  dignity  had 
depended  upon  the  breadth  and  perfection  of  the  vacancy. 
The  corona  which  resulted  was  iron-gray. 

When  Thomas  was  quite  ready  he  walked  into  the  inner  room. 

"  Tom,  my  boy,  you  are  late,"  said  Mr.  Boxall,  lifting  a  face 
whose  full  view  considerably  modified  the  impression  I  have 
just  given.  There  was  great  brilliance  in  the  deep-set  eyes, 
and  a  certain  something,  almost  merriment,  about  the  mouth, 
hovering  lightly  over  a  strong  upper  lip,  which  overhung  and 


8  Guild  Court. 

almost  hid  a  disproportionately  small  under  one.  His  chin 
was  large,  and  between  it  and  the  forehead  there  was  little 
space  left  for  any  farther  development  of  countenance. 

"Not  very  late,  I  believe,  sir,"  answered  Thomas.  "My 
watch  must  have  misled  me." 

"  Pull  out  your  watch,  my  boy,  and  let  us  see." 

Thomas  obeyed. 

"By  your  own  watch,  it  is  a  quarter  past,"  said  Mr.  Boxall. 

"I  have  been  here  five  minutes." 

"I  will  not  do  you  the  discredit  of  granting  you  have  spent 
that  time  in  taking  off  your  hat  and  gloves.  Your  watch  is 
five  minutes  slower  than  mine,"  continued  Mr.  Boxall,  pulling 
out  a  saucepan  of  silver,  "and  mine  is  five  minutes  slower 
than  the  Exchange.  You  are  nearly  half  an  hour  late.  You 
will  never  get  on  if  you  are  not  punctual.  It's  an  old-fash- 
ioned virtue,  I  know.  But  first  at  the  office  is  first  at  the 
winning-post,  I  can  tell  you.  You'll  never  make- money  if 
you're  late."  ,  \^ 

"  I  have  no  particular  wish — I  don't  want  to  make  money," 
said  Thomas. 

"But  I  do,"  rejoined  Mr.  Boxall,  good-naturedly;  "and 
you  are  my  servant,  and  must  do  your 'part," 

Thereat  Thomas  bridled  visibly. 

"Ah!  I  see,"  resumed  the  merchant 4  "you  don't  like  the 
word.  I  will  change  it.  There's  no  masters  or  servants  now- 
adays ;  they  are  all  governors  and  employees.  What  they  gain 
by  the  alteration,  I  am  sure  I  don't  know." 

I  spell  the  italicized  word  thus,  because  Mr.  Boxall  pro- 
nounced employes  exactly  as  if  it  were  an  English  word  ending 
in  ees. 

Mr.  Worboise's  lip  curled.  He  could  afford  to  be  contempt- 
uous. He  had  been  to  Boulogne,  and  believed  he  could  make 
a  Frenchman  understand  him.  He  certainly  did  know  two  of 
the  conjugations  out  of — I  really  don't  know  how  many.  His 
master  did  not  see  what  the  curl  indicated,  but  possibly  his 
look  made  Thomas  feel  that  he  had  been  rude.  He  sought  to 
cover  it  by  saying — 

"  Mr.  Wither  was  as  late  as  I  was,  sir.  I  think  it's  very 
hard  I  should  be  always  pulled  up,  and  nobody  else." 

"  Mr.  Wither  is  very  seldom  late,  and  you  are  often  late, 
my  boy.  Besides,  your  father  is  a  friend  of  mine,  and  I  want 
to  do  my  duty  by  him.     I  want  you  to  get  on." 

"  My  father  is  very  much  obliged  to  you,  sir." 

"So  he  tells  me,"  returned  Mr.  Boxall,  with  remarkable 


The  Walk  to  the  Counting-House.  9 

good  humor.  We  expect  you  to  dine  with  us  to-morrow, 
mind." 

"Thank  you,  I  have  another  engagement,"  answered 
Thomas,  with  dignity,  as  he  thought. 

Now  at  length  Mr.  Boxall's  brow  fell.  But  he  looked  more 
disappointed  than  angry. 

"I  am  sorry  for  that,  Tom.  I  wished  you  could  have 
dined  with  us.  I  won't  detain  you  longer.  Mind  you  don't 
ink  your  trousers." 

Was  Thomas  never  to  hear  the  last  of  those  trousers  ?  He 
began  to  wish  he  had  not  put  them  on.  He  made  his  bow, 
and  withdrew  in  chagrin,  considering  himself  disgraced  before 
his  fellows,  to  whom  he  would  gladly  have  been  a  model,  if  he 
could  have  occupied  that  position  without  too  much  trouble. 
But  his  heart  smote  him — gently,-  it  must  be  confessed — for 
having  refused  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Boxall,  and  shown  so  much 
resentment  in  a  matter  wherein  the  governor  was  quite  right. 

Mr.  Boxall  was  a  man  who  had  made  his  money  without 
losing  his  money's  worth.  Nobody  could  accuse  him  of  hav- 
ing ever  done  a  mean,  not  to  say  a  dishonest  thing.  This 
would  not  have  been  remarkable,  had  he  not  been  so  well  rec- 
ognized as  a  sharp  man  of  business.  The  more  knowing  any 
jobber  about  the  Exchange,  the  better  he  knew  that  it  was 
useless  to  dream  of  getting  an  advantage  over  Mr.  Boxall. 
But  it  was  indeed  remarkable  that  he  should  be  able  to  steer 
so  exactly  in  the  middle  course  that,  while  he  was  keen  as  an 
eagle  on  his  own  side,  he  should  yet  be  thoroughly  just  on  the 
other.  And,  seeing  both  sides  of  a  question  with  such  mar- 
velous clearness,  in  order  to  keep  his  own  hands  clean  he  was 
not  driven  from  uncertainty  to  give  the  other  man  anything 
more  than  his  right.  Yet  Mr.  Boxall  knew  how  to  be  gener- 
ous upon  occasion,  both  in  time  and  money  :  the  ordinary 
sharp  man  of  business  is  stingy  of  both.  The  chief  fault  he 
had  was  a  too  great  respect  for  success.  He  had  risen  himself 
by  honest  diligence,  and  he  thought  when  a  man  could  not 
rise  it  must  be  either  from  a  want  of  diligence  or  of  honesty. 
Hence  he  was  a  priori  ready  to  trust  the  successful  man,  and 
in  some  instances  to  trust  him  too  much.  That  he  had  a 
family  of  three  daughters  only — one  of  them  quite  a  child — 
who  had  never  as  yet  come  into  collision  with  any  project  or 
favorite  opinion  of  his,  might  probably  be  one  negative  cause 
of  the  continuance  of  his  openheartedness  and  justice  of 
regard. 

Thomas  Worboise's  father  had  been  a  friend  of  his  for  many 


10  Guild  Court. 

years— at  least  so  far  as  that  relation  could  be  called  friendship 
which  consisted  in  playing  as  much  into  each  other's  hands  in 
the  way  of  business  as  they  could,  dining  together  two  or 
three  times  in  the  course  of  the  year,  and  keeping  an  open 
door  to  each  other's  family.  Thomas  was  an  only  son,  with 
one  sister.  His  father  would  gladly  have  brought  him  up  to 
his  own  profession,  that  of  the  law,  but  Thomas  showing  con- 
siderable disinclination  to  the  necessary  studies,  he  had  placed 
him  in  his  friend's  counting-house  with  the  hope  that  that 
might  suit  him  better.  Without  a  word  haying  been  said  on 
the  subject,  both  the  fathers  would  have  gladly  seen  the  son  of 
the  one  engaged  to  any  daughter  of  the  other.  They  were 
both  men  of  considerable  property,  and  thought  that  this 
would  be  a  pleasant  way  of  determining  the  future  of  part  of 
their  possessions.  At  the  same  time  Mr.  Boxall  was  not  quite 
satisfied  with  what  he  had  as  yet  seen  of  Tom's  business  char- 
acter. However,  there  had  been  no  signs  of  approximation 
between  him  and  either  of  the  girls,  and  therefore  there  was 
no  cause  to  be  particularly  anxious  about  the  matter.. 


CHAPTEE  II. 

THE  ISTVALID  MOTHEE. 

To  account  in  some  measure  for  the  condition  in  which  we 
find  Tom  at  the  commencement  of  my  story,  it  will  be  better 
to  say  a  word  here  about  his  mother.  She-  was  a  woman  of 
weak  health  and  intellect,  but  strong  character;  was  very  re- 
ligious, and  had  a  great  influence  over  her  son,  who  was  far 
more  attached  to  her  than  he  was  to  his  father.  The  daugh- 
ter, on  the  other  hand,  leaned  to  her  father,  an  arrangement 
not  uncommon  in  families. 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  my  story  commences, 
office  hours  were  long  over  before  Tom  appeared  at  home. 
He  went  into  his  mother's  room,  and  found  her,  as  usual,  re- 
clining on  a  couch,  supported  by  pillows.  She  was  a  woman 
who  never  complained  of  her  sufferings,  and  her  face,  per- 
haps in  consequence  of  her  never  desiring  sympathy,  was  hard 
and  unnaturally  still.  Nor  were  her  features  merely  still — 
they  looked  immobile,  and  her  constant  pain  was  indicated 


The  Invalid  Mother.  11 

only  by  the  absence  of  all  curve  in  her  upper  lip.  When  her 
son  entered,  a  gentle  shimmer  of  love  shone  out  of  her 
eyes  of  troubled  blue,  but  the  words  in  which  she  addressed 
him  did  not  correspond  to  this  shine.  She  was  one  of  those 
who  think  the  Deity  jealous  of  the  amount  of  love  bestowed 
upon  other  human  beings,  even  by  their  own  parents,  and 
therefore  struggle  to  keep  down  their  deepest  and''  holiest  emo- 
tions, regarding  them  not  merely  as  weakness  but  as  positive 
sin,  and  likely  to  be  most  hurtful  to  the  object  on  which  they 
are  permitted  to  expend  themselves. 

"Well,  Thomas,"  said  his  mother,  "what  has  kept  you  so 
late  ?" 

11  Oh  !  I  don't  know,  mother,"  answered  Tom,  in  whose  at- 
tempted carelessness  there  yet  appeared  a  touch  of  anxiety, 
which  caught  her  eye. 

"  You  do  know,  Tom  ;  and  I  want  to  know." 

"I  waited  and  walked  home  with  Charles  Wither." 

He  did  not  say,  "  I  waited  to  walk  home." 

"  How  was  he  so  late  ?  You  must  have  left  the  office  hours 
ago." 

"He  had  some  extra  business  to  finish." 

It  was  business  of  his  own,  not  office  business  ;  and  Tom 
finding  out  that  he  would  be  walking  home  a  couple  of  hours 
later,  had  arranged  to  join  him  that  he  might  have  this  ac- 
count to  give  of  himself. 

"  You  know  I  do  not  like  you  to  be  too  much  with  that 
young  man.  He  is  not  religious.  In  fact,  I  believe  him  to  be 
quite  worldly.     Does  he  ever  go  to  church  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,  mother.     He's  not  a  bad  sort  of  fellow." 

"  He  is  a  bad  sort  of  fellow,  and  the  less  you  are  with  him 
the  better." 

"  I  can't  help  being  with  him  in  the  office,  you  know, 
mother." 

"  You  need  not  be  with  him  after  office  hours." 

"  Well,  no ;  perhaps  not.  But  it  would  look  strange  to 
avoid  him." 

"I  thought  you  had  more  strength  of  character,  Thomas." 

"I — I — I  spoke  very  seriously  to  him  this  morning, 
mother." 

"  Ah  !  That  alters  the  case,  if  you  have  courage  to  speak 
the  truth  to  him." 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened,  and  the  curate  of  St. 
Solomon's  was  announced.  Mrs.  Worboise  was  always  at 
home  to  him,  and  he  called  frequently,  both  because  she  was 


12  Guild  Court 

too  great  an  invalid  to  go  to  church,  and  becanse  they  sup- 
posed, on  the  ground  of  their  employing  the  same  religious 
phrases  in  their  conversation,  that  they  understood  each  other. 
He  was  a  gentle,  abstracted  youth,  with  a  face  that  looked  as 
if  its  informing  idea  had  been  for  a  considerable  period  sat 
upon  by  something  ungenial.  With  him  the  profession  had 
become  everything,  and  humanity  never  had  been  anything,  if 
not  something  bad.  He  walked  through  the  crowded  streets 
in  the  neighborhood  with  hurried  step  and  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ground,  his  pale  face  rarely  brightening  with  recognition,  for 
he  seldom  saw  any  passing  acquaintance.  When  he  did,  he 
greeted  him  with  a  voice  that  seemed  to  come  from  far-off 
shores,  but  came  really  from  a  bloodless,  nerveless  chest,  that 
had  nothing  to  do  with  life,  save  to  yield  up  the  ghost  in  eter- 
nal security,  and  send  it  safe  out  of  it.  He  seemed  to  recog- 
nize none  of  those  human  relations  which  make  the  blood 
mount  to  the  face  at  meeting,  and  give  strength  to  the  grasp 
of  the  hand.  He  would  not  have  hurt  a  fly  ;  he  would  have 
died  to  save  a  malefactor  from  the  gallows,  that  he  might  give 
him  another  chance  of  repentance.  But  mere  human  aid  he 
had  none  to  besto  w  ;  no  warmth,  no  heartening,  no  hope. 

Mr.  Simon  bowed  solemnly,  and  shook  hands  with  Mrs. 
Worboise. 

"How  are  you  to-night,"  Mrs.  Worboise  ?"  he  said,  glanc- 
ing round  the  room,  however.  For  the  only  sign  of  humanity 
about  him  was  a  certain  weak  admiration  of  Amy  Worboise, 
who,  if  tried  by  his  own  tests,  was  dreadfully  unworthy  even 
of  that.  For  she  was  a  merry  girl,  who  made  great  sport  of 
the  little  church-mouse,  as  she  called  him. 

Mrs.  Worboise  did  not  reply  to  this  question,  which  she 
always  treated  as  irrelevant.  Mr.  Simon  then  shook  hands 
with  Thomas,  who  looked  on  him  with  a  respect  inherited 
from  his  mother. 

"  Any  signs  of  good  in  your  class,  Mr.  Thomas  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  question  half  irritated  Tom.  Why,  he  could  not  have 
explained  even  to  himself.  The  fact  was  that  he  had  begun 
to  enter  upon  another  phase  of  experience  since  he  saw  the 
curate  last,  and  the  Sunday-school  was  just  a  little  distasteful 
to  him  at  the  moment. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  with  a  certain  slightest  motion  of  the 
head  that  might  have  been  interpreted  either  as  of  weariness 
or  of  indifference. 

The  clergyman  interpreted  it  as  of  the  latter,  and  proceeded 
to  justify  his  question,  addressing  his  words  to  the  mother. 


The  Invalid  Mother.  13 

"  Your  son  thinks  me  too  anxious  about  the  fruits  of  his 
labor,  Mrs.  "Worboise.  But  when  we  think  of  the  briefness 
of  life,  and  how  soon  the  night  comes  when  no  man  can 
work,  I  do  not  think  we  can  be  too  earnest  to  win  souls  for  our 
crown  of  rejoicing  when  He  comes  with  the  holy  angels. 
First  our  own  souls,  Mr.  Thomas,  and  then  the  souls  of  others." 

Thomas,  believing  every  word  that  the  curate  said,  made 
notwithstanding  no  reply,  and  the  curate  went  on. 

"  There  are  so  many  souls  that  might  be  saved,  if  one  were 
only  in  earnest,  and  so  few  years  to  do  it  in.  We  do  not  strive 
with  God  in  prayer,  Mrs.  Worboise.  We  faint  and  cease  from 
our  prayers  and  our  endeavors  together." 

"  That  is  too  true,"  responded  the  lady. 

"  I  try  to  do  my  best,"  said  Thomas,  in  a  tone  of  apology, 
and  with  a  lingering  doubt  in  his  mind  whether  he  was  really 
speaking  the  absolute  trnth.  But  he  comforted  himself  with 
saying  to  himself,  "  I  only  said  'I  try  to  do  my  best ; '  I  did 
not  say,  '  I  try  my  best  to  do  my  best. '  " 

"  I  have  no  reason  to  doubt  it,  my  young  friend,"  returned 
the  curate,  who  was  not  ten  years  older  than  his  young  friend. 
.'"I  only  fancied — no  doubt  it  was  but  the  foolish  fancy  of  my 
own  anxiety— that  you  did  not  respond  quite  so  heartily  as 
usual  to  myremark." 

The  mother's  eyes  were  anxiously  fixed  on  her  son  during 
the  conversation,  for  her  instincts  told  her  that  he  was  not 
quite  at  his  ease.  She  had  never  given  him  any  scope,  never 
trusted  him,  or  trained  him  to  freedom  ;  but,  herself  a  pris- 
oner to  her  drawing-room  and  bedroom,  sought  with  all  her 
energy  and  contrivance,  for  which  she  had  plenty  of  leisure, 
to  keep,  strengthen,  and  repair  the  invisible  cable  by  which 
she  seemed  to  herself  to  hold,  and  in  fact  did  hold,  him,  even 
when  he  was  out  of  her  sight,  and  himself  least  aware  of  the 
fact. 

As  yet  again  Thomas  made  no  reply,  Mr.  Simon  changed 
the  subject. 

"  Have  you  much  pain  to-night,  Mrs.  Worboise  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  I  can  oear  it,"  she  answered.     "  It  will  not  last  forever." 

"  You  find  comfort  in  looking  to  the  rest  that  remaineth," 
responded  Mr.  Simon.  "  It  is  the  truest  comfort.  Still,  your 
friends  would  gladly  see  you  enjoy  a  little  more  of  the  pres- 
ent— "  world,  Mr.  Simon  was  going  to  say,  but  the  word  was 
unsuitable  ;  so  he  changed  it — "  of  the  present — ah  !  dispen- 
sation," he  said. 


14  Guild  Court. 

"  The  love  of  this  world  bringeth  a  snare,"  suggested  Mrs. 
Worboise,  believing  that  she  quoted  Scripture. 

Thomas  rose  and  left  the  room.  He  did  not  return  till  the 
curate  had  taken  his  leave.  It  was  then  almost  time  for  his 
mother  to  retire.  As  soon  as  he  entered  he  felt  her  anxious 
pale-blue  eyes  fixed  upon  him. 

"Why  did  you  go,  Thomas  ?"  she  asked,  moving  on  her 
couch,  and  revealing  by  her  face  a  twinge  of  sharper  pain  than 
ordinary.  "  You  used  to  listen  with  interest  to  the  conversa- 
tion of  Mr.  Simon.  He  is  a  man  whose  conversation  is  in 
Heaven." 

"  I  thought  you  would  like  to  have  a  little  private  talk  with 
him,  mamma.  You  generally  do  have  a  talk  with  him 
alone. " 

"  Don't  call  it  talk,  Thomas.  That  is  not  the  proper  word 
to  use." 

"  Communion  then,  mother,"  answered  Thomas,  with  the 
feeling  of  aversion  a  little  stronger  and  more  recognizable  than 
before,  but  at  the  same  time  annoyed  with  himself  that  he  thus 
felt.  And,  afraid  that  he  had  shown  the  feeling  which  he  did 
recognize,  he  hastened  to  change  the  subject  and  speak  of  one 
which  he  had  at  heart. 

"  But,  mother,  dear,  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about  some- 
thing. You  mustn't  mind  my  being  late  once  or  twice  a  week 
now,  for  I  am  going  in  for  German.  There  is  a  very  good 
master  lives  a  few  doors  from  the  counting-house  ;  and  if  you 
take  lessons  "in  the  evening  at  his  own  lodgings,  he  charges  so 
much  less  for  it.  And,  you  know,  it  is  such  an  advantage 
nowadays  for  any  one  who  wants  to  get  on  in  business  to  know 
German  ! " 

"  Does  Mr.  Wither  join  you,  Thomas  ?"  asked  his  mother, 
in  a  tone  of  knowing  reproof. 

"  No,  indeed,  mother,"  answered  Thomas  ;  and  a  gleam  of 
satisfaction  shot  through  his  brain  as  his  mother  seemed  satis- 
fied. Either,  however,  he  managed  to  keep  it  off  his  face,  or 
his  mother  did  not  perceive  or  understand  it,  for  the  satisfac- 
tion remained  on  her  countenance. 

"I  will  speak  to  your  father  about  it,"  she  answered. 

This  was  quite  as  much  as  Thomas  could  have  hoped  for  :  he 
had  no  fear  of  his  father  making  any  objection.  He  kissed 
his  mother  on  the  cheek — it  was  a  part  of  her  system  of 
mortifying  the  flesh  with  its  affections  and  lusts  that  she  never 
kissed  him  with  any  fervor,  and  rarely  allowed  those  straight 
lips  to  meet  his — and  they  parted  for  the  night. 


Expostulation.  15 


CHAPTER  III. 

EXPOSTULATION". 

Thomas  descended  to  breakfast,  feeling  fresh  and  hopeful. 
The  weather  had  changed  during  the  night,  and  it  was  a  clear, 
frosty  morning,  cold  blue  cloudless  sky  and  cold  gray  leafless 
earth  reflecting  each  other's  winter  attributes.  The  sun  was 
there,  watching  from  afar  how  they  could  get  on  without  him  ; 
but,  as  if  they  knew  he  had  not  forsaken  them,  they  were  both 
merry.  Thomas  stood  up  with  his  back  to  the  blazing  fire, 
and  through  the  window  saw  his  father  walking  bareheaded  in 
the  garden.  He  had  not  returned  home  till  late  the  night 
before,  and  Thomas  had  gone  to  bed  without  seeing  him. 
Still  he  had  been  up  the  first  in  the  house,  and  had  been  at 
work  for  a  couple  of  hours  upon  the  papers  he  had  brought 
home  in  his  blue  bag.  Thomas  walked  to  the  window  to  show 
himself,  as  a  hint  to  his  father  that  breakfast  was  ready.  Mr. 
Worboise  saw  him,  and  came  in.  Father  and  son  did  not 
shake  hands  or  wish  each  other  good-morning,  but  they  nod- 
ded and  smiled,  and  took  their  seats  at  the  table.  As  Mr. 
Worboise  sat  down,  he  smoothed,  first  with  one  hand,  then 
with  the  other,  two  long  side-tresses  of  thin  hair,  trained  like 
creepers  over  the  top  of  his  head,  which  was  perfectly  bald. 
Their  arrangement  added  to  the  resemblance  his  forehead 
naturally  possessed  to  the  bottom  of  a  flat-iron,  set  up  on  the 
base  of  its  triangle.  His  eyebrows  were  very  dark,  straight, 
and  bushy,  his  eyes  a  keen  hazel ;  his  nose  straight  on  the 
ridge,  but  forming  an  obtuse  angle  at  the  point ;  his  mouth 
curved  upward,  and  drawn  upward  by  the  corners'  when  he 
smiled,  Avhich  gave  him  the  appearance  of  laughing  down  at 
evsrything  ;  his  chin  now  is  remarkable.  And  there,  reader, 
I  hope  you  have  him.  I  ought  to  have  mentioned  that  no  one 
ever  saw  his  teeth,  though  to  judge  from  his  performances  at 
the  table,  they  were  in  serviceable  condition.  He  was  consid- 
erably above  the  middle  hight,  shapeless  rather  than  stout, 
and  wore  black  clothes. 

"You're  going  to  dine  at  the  Boxall's  to-night,  I  believe, 
Tom  ?  Mr.  Boxall  asked  me,  but  I -can't  go.  I  am  so  busy 
with  that  case  of  Spender  &  Spoon." 

"No,  father.     I  don't  mean  to  go,"  said  Tom. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Worboise,  with  some  surprise,  and 


16  Guild  Court. 

more  than  a  hint  of  dissatisfaction.  "  Your  mother  hasn't 
been  objecting,  has  she  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  aware  that  my  mother  knows  of  the  invitation," 
answered  Tom,  trying  to  hide  his  discomfort  in  formality  of 
speech. 

"Well,  /said  nothing  about  it,  I  believe.  But  I  accepted 
for  you  at  the  same  time  that  I  declined  for  myself.  You  saw 
the  letter — I  left  it  for  you." 

"Yes,  sir,  I  did." 

"  Well,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  what  do  you  mean  ?  You 
answer  as  if  you  were  in  the  witness-box.  I  am  not  going  to 
take  any  advantage  of  you.  Speak  out,  man.  Why  won't  you 
go  to  Boxall's?" 

"  Well,  sir,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  didn't  think  he  behaved 
quite  well  to  me  yesterday.  I  happened  to  be  a  few  minutes 
late,  and — " 

"  And  Boxall  blew  you  up  ;  and  that's  the  way  you  take  to 
show  your  dignified  resentment !     Bah  ! " 

"  He  ought  to  behave  to  me  like  a  gentleman." 

"But  how  is  he,  if  he  isn't  a  gentleman  ?  He  hasn't  had 
the  bringing  up  you've  had.  But  he's  a  good,  honest  fellow, 
and  says  what  he  means. " 

"That  is  just  what  I  did,  sir.  And  you  have  always  told 
me  that  honesty  is  the  best  policy." 

"  Yes,  I  confess.  But  that  is  not  exactly  the  kind  of  hon- 
esty I  mean,"  returned  Mr.  Worboise  with  a  fishy  smile,  for 
his  mouth  was  exactly  of  the  fish  type.  "  The  law  scarcely 
refers  to  the  conduct  of  a  gentleman  as  a  gentleman." 

This  was  obscure  to  his  son,  as  it  may  be  to  the  reader. 

"  Then  you  don't  want  me  to  behave  like  a  gentleman  ?"  said 
Tom. 

"  Keep  your  diploma  in  your  pocket  till  it's  asked  for," 
answered  his  father.  "  If  you  are  constantly  obtruding  it  on 
other  people,  they  will  say  you  bought  it  and  paid  for  it.  A 
gentleman  can  afford  to  put  an  affront  in  beside  it,  when  he 
knows  it's  there.  But  the  idea  of  good  old  Boxall  insulting 
a  son  of  mine  is  too  absurd,  Tom.  You  must  remember  you 
are  his  servant." 

"  So  he  told  me,"  said  Tom,  with  reviving  indignation. 

"  And  that,  I  suppose,  is  what  you  call  an  insult,  eh  ?  " 

"  Well,  to  say  the  least,  it  is  not  a  pleasant  word  to  use." 

"  Especially  as  it  expresses  a  disagreeable  fact.  Come, 
come,  my  boy.  Better  men  then  you  will  ever  be  have  had  to 
sweep  their  master's  office  before  now.     But  no  reference  is 


Expostulation.  17 

made  to  the  fact  after  they  call  the  office  their  own.  You  go 
and  tell  Mr.  Boxall  that  you  will  be  happy  to  dine  with  him 
to-night  if  he  will  allow  you  to  change  your  mind." 

"But  I  told  him  I  was  engaged." 

"Tell  him  the  engagement  is  put  off,  and  you  are  at  his 
service." 

"  But — "  began  Tom,  and  stopped.  He  was  going  to  say 
the  engagement  was  not  put  off. 

"  But  what  ?"  said  his  father. 

"I  don't  like  to  do  it,"  answered  Tom.  "He  will  take  it 
for  giving  in  and  wanting  to  make  up. " 

"  Leave  it  to  me,  then,  my  boy,"  returned  his  father, 
kindly.  "  I  will  manage  it.  My  business  is  not  so  very  press- 
ing but  that  I  can  go*  if  I  choose.  I  will  write  and  say  that  a 
change  in  my  plans  has  put  it  in  my  power  to  be  his  guest, 
after  all,  and  that  I  have  persuaded  you  to  put  off  your  engage- 
ment and  come  with  me." 

"But  that  would  be — would  not  be  true,"  hesitated 
Tom. 

"  Pooh  !  pooh  !  I'll  take  the  responsibility  of  that.  Be- 
sides, it  is  true.  Your  mother  will  make  a  perfect  spoon  of 
you — Avith  the  help  of  good  little  Master  Simon.  Can't  I 
change  my  plans  if  I  like  ?  We  must  not  offend  Boxall.  He 
is  a  man  of  mark — and  warm.  I  say  nothing  about  figures — 
I  never  tell  secrets.  I  don't  even  say  how  many  figures.  But 
I  know  all  about  it,  and  venture  to  say,  between  father  and 
son,  that  he  is  warm,  decidedly  warm — possibly  hot,"  concluded 
Mr.  Worboise,  laughing. 

"  I  don't  exactly  understand  you,  sir,"  said  Tom,  medita- 
tively. 

"  You  would  understand  me  well  enough  if  you  had  a  mind 
to  business,"  answered  his  father. 

But  what  he  really  meant  in  his  heart  was  that  Mr.  Boxall 
had  two  daughters,  to  one  of  whom  it  was  possible  that  his  son 
might  take  a  fancy,  or  rather — to  express  it  in  the  result,  which 
was  all  that  he  looked  to — a  marriage  might  be  brought  about 
between  Tom  and  Jane  or  Mary  Boxall ;  in  desiring  which  he 
thought  he  knew  what  he  was  about,  for  he  was  Mr.  Boxall's 
man  of  business. 

"  I  won't  have  you  offend  Mr.  Boxall,  anyhow,"  he  con- 
cluded.    "  He  is  your  governor." 

The  father  had  tact  enough  to  substitute  the  clerk's  pseu- 
donym for  the  obnoxious  term. 

"  Very  well,  sir ;  I  suppose  I  must  leave  it  to  you,"  an- 

2. 


18  Guild   Court. 

swered  Tom ;  and  they  finished  their  breakfast  without  re- 
turning to  the  subject. 

When  he  reached,  the  counting-house,  Tom  went  at  once  to 
Mr.  Boxall's  room,  and  made  his  apologies  for  being  late  again, 
on  the  ground  that  his  father  had  detained  him  while  he  wrote 
the  letter  he  now  handed  to  him.  Mr.  Boxall  glanced  at  the 
note. 

"  I  am  very  glad,  Tom,  that  both  your  father  and  you  have 
thought  better  of  it.     Be  punctual  at  seven." 

"  Wife  must  put  another  leaf  yet  in  the  table,"  he  said  to 
himself,  as  Thomas  retired  to  his  desk.  "  Thirteen's  not 
lucky,  though  ;  but  one  is  sure  to  be  absent." 

No  one  was  absent,  however,  and  number  thirteen  was  the 
standing  subject  of  the  jokes  of  the  evening,  especially  as  the 
thirteenth  was  late,  in  the  person  of  Mr.  Wither,  whom  Mr. 
Boxall  had  invited  out  of  mere  good  nature ;  for  he  did  not 
care  much  about  introducing  him  to  his  family,  although  his 
QDnduct  in  the  counting-house  was  irreproachable.  Miss  Wor- 
boise  had  been  invited  with  her  father  and  brother,  biit  whether 
she  stayed  at  home  to  nurse  her  mother  or  to  tease  the  curate, 
is  of  no  great  importance  to  my  history. 

The  dinner  was  a  good,  well-contrived,  rather  antiquated 
dinner,  within  the  compass  of  the  house  itself  ;  for  Mrs.  Box- 
all  only  pleased  her  husband  as  often  as  she  said  that  they 
were  and  would  remain  old-fashioned  people,  and  would  have 
their  own  maids  to  prepare  and  serve  a  dinner — "none  of  those 
men-cooks  and  undertakers  to  turn  up  their  noses  at  every- 
thing in  the  house  ! "  But  Tom  abused  the  whole  affair  with- 
in himself  as  nothing  but  a  shop-dinner  ;  for  there  was  Mr. 
Stopper,  the  head-clerk,  looking  as  sour  as  a  summons  ;  and 
there  was  Mr.  Wither,  a  good  enough  fellow  and  gentleman- 
like, but  still  of  the  shop  ;  besides  young  Weston,  of  whom 
nobody  could  predicate  any  thing  in  particular,  save  that  he 
stood  in  such  awe  of  Mr.  Stopper,  that  he  missed  the  way  to 
his  mouth  in  taking  stolen  stares  at  him  across  the  table.  Mr. 
Worboise  sat  at  the  hostess's  left  hand,  and  Mr.  Stopper  at 
her  right  ;  Tom  a  little  way  from  his  father,  with  Mary  Box- 
all,  whom  he  had  taken  down,  beside  him  ;  and  many  were 
the  underbrowed  glances  which  the  head- clerk  shot  across  the 
dishes  at  the  couple. 

Mary  was  a  very  pretty,  brown-haired,  white-skinned,  blue- 
eyed  damsel,  whose  charms  lay  in  harmony  of  color,  general 
roundness,  the  smallness  of  her  extremities,  and  her  simple 
kind-heartedness.      She  was  dressed  in  white  muslin,   with 


Expostulation.  19 

ribbons  precisely  the  color  of  her  eyes.  Tom  could  not  help 
being  pleased  at  having  her  beside  him.  She  was  not  difficult 
to  entertain,  for  she  was  willing  to  be  interested  in  anything ; 
and  while  Tom  was  telling  her  a  story  about  a  young  lad  in 
his  class  at  the  Sunday-school,  whom  he  had  gone  to  see  at 
his  wretched  home,  those  sweet  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  Mr. 
Stopper  saw  it,  and  choked  in  his  glass  of  sherry.  Tom  saw 
it  too,  and  would  haye  been  more  overcome  thereby,  had  it  not 
been  for  reasons. 

Charles  Wither,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  was  neg- 
lecting his  own  lady  for  the  one  at  his  other  elbow,  who  was 
Jane  Boxall — a  fine,  regular-featured,  dark-skinned  young 
woman.  They  were  watched  with  stolen  glances  of  some 
anxiety  from  both  ends  of  the  table,  for  neither  father  nor 
mother  cared  much  about  Charles  Wither,  although  the 
former  was  too  kind  to  omit  inviting  him  to  his  house  occa- 
sionally. 

After  the  ladies  retired,  the  talk  was  about  politics,  the 
money-market,  and  other  subjects  quite  uninteresting  to  Tom, 
who,  as  I  have  already  said,  was  at  this  period  of  his  history 
a  reader  of  Byron,  and  had  therefore  little  sympathy  with 
human  pursuits  except  they  took  some  abnormal  form — such 
as  piracy,  atheism,  or  the  like — in  the  person  of  one  endowed 
with  splendid  faculties  and  gifts  in  general.  So  he  stole  away 
from  the  table,  and  joined  the  ladies  some  time  before  the 
others  rose  from  their  wine  ;  not,  however,  before  he  had  him- 
self drunk  more  than  his  gravity. of  demeanor  was  quite  suffi- 
cient to  ballast.  He  found  Mary  turning  over  some  music, 
and  as  he  drew  near  he  saw  her  laying  aside,  in  its  turn, 
Byron's  song,  "  She  walks  in  beauty." 

"  Oh  !  do  you  sing  that  song,  Miss  Mary  ?"  he  asked  with 
emjwessement. 

"  I  have  sung  it  several  times,"  she  answered  ;  "but  I  am 
afraid  I  cannot  sing  it  well  enough  to  please  you.  Are  you 
fond  of  the  song  ?  " 

"  I  only  know  the  words  of  it,  and  should  so  much  like  to 
hear  you  sing  it.     I  never  heard  it  sung.     Do,  Miss  Mary." 

"  You  will  be  indulgent,  then  ? " 

"  I  shall  have  no  chance  of  exercising  that  virtue,  I  know. 
There." 

He  put  the  music  on  the  piano  as  he  spoke,  and  Mary,  ad- 
justing her  white  skirts  and  her  white  shoulders,  began  to 
sing- the  song  with  taste,  and,  what  was  more,  with  simplicity. 
Her  voice  was  very  pleasant  to  the  ears  of  Thomas,  warbling 


20  Guild  Court. 

one  of  the  songs  of  the  man  whom,  against  his  conscience,  he 
could  not  help  regarding  as  the  greatest  he  knew.  So  much 
moved  was  he,  that  the  signs  of  his  emotion  would  have  been 
plainly  seen  had  not  the  rest  of  the  company,  while  listening 
more  or  less  to  the  song,  been  employing  their  eyes  at  the  same 
time  with  Jane's  portfolio  of  drawings.  All  the  time  he  had 
his  eyes  upon  her  white  shoulder  :  stooping  to  turn  the  last 
leaf  from  behind  her,  he  kissed  it  lightly.  At  the  same  mo- 
ment the  door  opened,  and  Mr.  Stopper  entered.  Mary 
stopped  singing,  and  rose  with  a  face  of  crimson  and  the 
timidest,  slightest  glance  at  Tom,  whose  face  flushed  up  in 
response. 

It  was  a  foolish  action,  possibly  repented  almost  as  soon  as 
done.  Certainly,  for  the  rest  of  the  evening,  Thomas  sought 
no  opportunity  of  again  approaching  Mary.  I  do  not  doubt  it 
was  with  some  feeling  of  relief  that  he  heard  his  father  say 
it  was  time  for  them  to  be  going  home. 

None  of  the  parents  would  have  been  displeased  had  they 
seen  the  little  passage  between  the  young  people.     Neither  was 
Mary  offended  at  what  had  occurred.     While  she  sat  singing, 
she  knew  that  the  face  bending,  over  her  was  one  of  the  hand- 
somest— a  face  rather  long  and  pale,  of  almost  pure  Greek  cut- 
line,  with  a  high  forehead,  and  dark  eyes  with  a  yet  darker 
fringe.     Nor,  although  the  reader  must   see  that  Tern  had 
nothing  yet  that  could  be  called  character,  was  his  face  there- 
fore devoid  of  expression ;  for  he  had  plenty  of  feeling,  and 
that  will  sometimes  shine  out   the  more  from  the  very  absence 
of  a  characteristic  meaning  in-the  countenance.     Hence,  when 
Mary  felt  the  kiss,  and  glanced  at  the  face  whence  it  had  fallen, 
she  read  more  in  the  face  than  there  was  in  it  to  read,  and  the 
touch  of  his  lips  went  deeper  than  her  white  shoulder.     They 
were  both  young,  and  as  yet  mere   electric  jars  charged  with 
emotions.     Had  they  both  continued  such  as  they  were  now, 
there  could  have  been  no  story  to  tell  about  them  ;  none  such, 
at  least,  as  I  should  care  to  tell.     They  belonged  to  the  com- 
mon class  of  mortals  who,  although  they  are  weaving  a  history, 
are  not  aware  of  it,  and  in  whom  the  process  goes  on  so  slowly 
that  the  eye  of  the  artist  can  find  in  them  no  substance  suffi- 
cient to  be  woven  into  a  human  creation  in  tale  or  poem. 
How  dull  that  life  looks  to  him,  with  its  ambitions,  its  love- 
making,  its  dinners,  its  sermons,  its  tailors'  bills,  its  weariness 
over  all — without  end  or  goal  save  that  toward  which  it  is 
driven  purposeless  !    Not  till  a  hope  is  born  such  that  its  full- 
filment  depends  upon  the  will  of  him  who  cherishes  it,  does  a 


Expostulation.  21 

man  begin  to  develop  the  stuff  out  of  which  a  tale  can  be 
wrought.  For  then  he  begins  to  have  a  story  of  his  own — it 
may  be  for  good,  it  may  be  for  evil — but  a  story.  Thomas's 
religion  was  no  sign  of  this  yet ;  for  a  man  can  no  more  be 
saved  by  the  mere  reflex  of  parental  influences  than  he  will 
be  condemned  by  his  inheritance  of  parental  sins.  I  do  not 
say  that  there  is  no  interest  in  the  emotions  of  such  young 
people ;  but  I  say  there  is  not  reality  enough  in  them  to  do 
anything  with.  They  are  neither  consistent  nor  persistent 
enough  to  be  wrought  into  form.  Such  are  in  the  condition 
over  which,  in  the  miracle-play,  Adam  laments  to  Eve  after 
their  expulsion  from  Paradise — 

"  Oure  hap  was  hard,  oure  ivytt  was  nesche  (soft,  tender) 
To  paradys  whan  we  were  brought." 

Mr.  Boxall  lived  in  an  old-fashioned  house  in  Hackney,  with 
great  rooms 'and  a  large  garden.  Through  the  latter  he  went 
with  Mr.  Worboise  and  Tom  to  let  them  out  at  a  door  in  the 
wall,  which  would  save  them  a  few  hundred  yards  in  going  to 
the  North  London  Railway.  There  were  some  old  trees  in 
the  garden,  and  much  shrubbery.  As  he  returned  he  heard  a 
rustle  among  the  lilacs  that  crowded  about  a  side-walk,  and 
thought  he  saw  the  shimmer  of  a  white  dress.  When  he 
entered  the  drawing-room,  his  daughter  Jane  entered  from 
the  opposite  door.  He  glanced  round  the  room  :  Mr.  Wither 
was  gone.  This  made  Mr.  Boxall  suspicious  and  restless  ;  for, 
as  I  have  said,  he  had  not  confidence  in  Mr.  Wither.  Though 
punctual  and  attentive  to  business,  he  was  convinced  that  he 
was  inclined  to  be  a  fast  man  ;  and  he  strongly  suspected  him 
of  being  concerned  in  betting  transactions  of  different  sorts, 
which  are  an  abomination  to  the  man  of  true  business  associa- 
tions and  habits. 

Mr.  Worboise  left  the  house  in  comfortable  spirits,  for 
Providence  had  been  propitious  to  him  for  some  months  past, 
and  it  mattered  nothing  to  him  whether  or  how  the  wind 
blew.-  But  it  blew  from  the  damp  west  cold  and  grateful  upon 
Thomas's  brow.  The  immediate  influence  of  the  wine  he  had 
drunk  had  gone  off,  and  its  effects  remained  in  discomfort  and 
doubt.  Had  he  got  himself  into  a  scrape  with  Mary  Boxall  ? 
He  had  said  nothing  to  her.  He  had  not  committed  himself 
to  anything.  And  the  wind  blew  cooler  and  more  refreshing 
upon  his  forehead.  And  then  came  a  glow  of  pleasure  as  ho 
recalled  her  blush  and  the  glance  she  had  so  timidly  lifted 


22  Guild  Court. 

toward  his  lordly  face.  That  was  something  to  be  proud  of  ! 
Certainly  he  was  one  whom  women — I  suppose  he  said  girls 
to  himself —were  ready  to — yes — to  fall  in  love  with.  Proud 
position  !  Enviable  destiny  !  Before  he  reached  home  the 
wind  had  blown  away  every  atom  of  remorse  with  the  sickly 
fumes  of  the  wine  ;  and  although  he  resolved  to  be  careful 
how  he  behaved  to  Mary  Boxall  in  future,  he  hugged  his  own 
handsome  idea  in  the  thought  that  she  felt  his  presence,  andj 
was — just  a  little — not  dangerously — but  really  a  little  in  love 
with  him. 


CHAPTEE   IV. 

GUILD   COUKT. 

The  office  was  closed,  the  shutters  were  up  in  the  old- 
fashioned  way  on  the  outside,  the  lights  extinguished,  and 
Mr.  Stopper,  who  was  always  the  last  to  leave,  was  gone.  The 
narrow  street  looked  very  dreary,  for  most  of  its  windows  were 
similarly  covered.  The  shutters,  the  pavements,  the  kennels, 
everything  shone  and  darkened  by  fits.  For  it  was  a  blowing 
night,  with  intermittent  showers,  and  everything  was  wet,  and 
reflected  the  gaslights  in  turn,  which  the  wind  teased  into  all 
angles  of  relation  with  neighboring  objects,  tossing  them  about 
like  flowers  ready  at  any  moment  to  be  blown  from  their  stems. 
Great  masses  of  gray  went  sweeping  over  the  narrow  section  of 
the  sky  that  could  be  seen  from  the  pavement. 

[Now  and  then  the  moon  gleamed  out  for  one  moment  and 
no  more,  swallowed  the  next  by  a  mile  of  floating  rain,  dusky 
and  shapeless.  Fighting  now  with  a  fierce  gust,  and  now 
limping  along  in  comparative  quiet,  with  a  cotton  umbrella 
for  a  staff,  an  old  woman  passed  the  office,  glanced  up  at  the 
shuttered  windows,  and,  after  walking  a  short  distance,  turned 
into  a  paved  archway,  and  then  going  along  a  narrow  passage, 
reached  a  small  paved  square,  called.  Guild  Court.  Here  she 
took  from  her  pocket  a  latch-key,  and  opening  a  door  much 
in  want  of  paint,  but  otherwise  in  good  condition,  entered, 
and  ascended  a  broad,  dusky  stair-case,  with  great  landings, 
whence  each  ascent  rose  at  right  angles  to  the  preceding. 
The  dim  light  of  the  tallow  candle,  which  she  had  left  in  a 
corner  of  the  stair-case  as  she  descended,  and  now  took  up 


Guild  Court.  23 

with  her  again,  was  sufficient  to  show  that  the  balusters  were 
turned  and  carved,  and  the  hand-rail  on  the  top  of  them  broad 
and  channeled.  When  she  reached  the  first  floor,  she  went 
along  a  passage,  and  at  the  end  of  it  opened  a  door.  A  cheer- 
ful fire  burned  at  the  other  end  of  a  large  room,  and  by  the 
side  of  the  fire  sat  a  girl,  gazing  sd  intently  into  the  glowing 
coals,  that  she  seemed  unaware  of  the  old  woman's  entrance. 
When  she  spoke  to  her,  she  started  and  rose. 

"  So  you're  come  home,  Lucy,  and  searching  the  fire  for  a 
wishing-cap,  as  usual !  "  said  the  old  lady,  cheerily. 

The  girl  did  not  reply,  and  she  resumed,  with  a  little  change 
of  tone — 

"  I  do  declare,  child,  I'll  never  let  him  cross  the  door  again, 
if  it  drives  you  into  the  dumps  that  way.  Take  heart  of 
grace,  my  girl ;  you're  good  enough  for  him  any  day,  though 
he  be  a  fine  gentleman.  He's  no  better  gentleman  than  my 
son,  anyhow,  though  he's  more  of  a  buck." 

Lucy  moved  about  a  little  uneasily ;  turned  to  the  high 
mantel-piece,  took  up  some  trifle  and  played  with  it  nervously, 
set  it  down  with  a  light  sigh,  the  lightness  of  which  was  prob- 
ably affected  ;  went  across  the  room  to  a  chest  of  drawers,  in 
doing  which  she  turned  her  back  on  the  old  woman  ;  and  then 
only  replied,  in  a  low  pleasant  voice,  which  wavered  a  little, 
as  if  a  good  cry  were  not  far  off — 

"  I'm  sure,  grannie,  you're  always  kind  to  him  when  he 
comes." 

"  I'm  civil  to  him,  child.  Who  could  help  it  ?  Such  a  fine, 
handsome  fellow  !  And  has  got  very  winning  ways  with  him, 
too  !  That's  the  mischief  of  it  !  I  always  had  a  soft  heart  to 
a  frank  face.  A  body  would  think  I  wasn't  a  bit  wiser  than 
the  day  I  was  born." 

And  she  laughed  a  toothless  old  laugh  which  must  once  have 
been  very  pleasant  to  her  husband  to  hear,  and  indeed  was 
pleasant  to  hear  now.  By  this  time  she  had  got  her  black 
bonnet  off,  revealing  a  widow's  cap,  with  gray  hair  neatly 
arranged  down  the  sides  of  a  very  wrinkled  old  face.  Indeed 
the  wrinkles  were  innumerable,  so  that  her  cheeks  and  fore- 
head looked  as  if  they  had  been  crimped  with  a  penknife,  like 
a  piece  of  fine  cambric  frill.  But  there  was  not  one  deep  rut 
in  her  forehead  or  cheek.  Care  seemed  to  have  had  nothing 
at  all  to  do  with  this  condition  of  them. 

"  Well,  grannie,  why  should  you  be  so  cross  with  me  for 
liking  him,  when  you  like  him  just  as  much  yourself  ?  "  said 
Lucy,  archly. 


24  Guild  Court. 

11  Cross  with  you,  child  !  I'm  not  cross  with  you,  and  you 
know  that  quite  well.  You  know  I  never  could  be  cross  with 
you  even  if  I  ought  to  be.  And  I  didn't  ought  now,  I'm  sure. 
But  I  am  cross  with  him  ;  for  he  can't  be  behaving  right  to 
you  when  your  sweet  face  looks  like  that." 

"*|ibw  clon't,  grannie,  else  I  shall  have  to  be  cross  with  you. 
Don't  say  a  word  against  him.  Don't  now,  dear  grannie,  or 
you  and  I  shall  quarrel,  and  that  would  break  my  heart. " 

"  Bless  the  child  !  I'm  not  saying  a  word  for  or  against  him. 
I'm  afraid  you're  a  great  deal  too  fond  of  him,  Lucy.  What 
hold  have  you  on  him  now  ?  " 

"  What  hold,  granny  ! "  exclaimed  Lucy,  indignantly.  "  Do 
you  think  if  I  were  going  to  be  married  to  him  to-morrow, 
and  he  never  came  to  the  church — do  you  think  I  would  lift 
that  bonnet  to  hold  him  to  it  ?    Indeed,  then,  I  wouldn't. " 

And  Lucy  did  not  cry,  but  she  turned  her  back  on  her 
grandmother  as  if  she  would  rather  her  face  should  not  be 
seen. 

"  What  makes  you  out  of  sorts,  to-night,  then,  lovey  ?  " 

Lucy  made  no  reply,  but  moved  hastily  to  the  window, 
made  the  smallest  possible  chink  between  the  blind  and  the 
window-frame,  and  peeped  out  into  the  court.  She  had 
heard  a  footstep  which  she  knew  ;  and  now  she  glided,  quiet 
and  swift  as  a  ghost,  out  of  the  room,  closing  the  door  behind 
her. 

"  I  wonder  when  it  will  come  to  an  end.  Always  the  same 
thing  over  again,  I  suppose,  to  the  last  of  the  world.  It's  no 
use  telling  them  what  we  know.  It  won't  make  one  of  them 
young  things  the  wiser.  The  first  man  that  looks  at  them 
turns  the  head  of  them.  And  I  must  confess,  if  I  was  young 
again  myself,  and  hearkening  for  my  John's  foot  in  the  court, 
I  might  hobble — no,  not  hobble  then,  but  run  down  the  stairs 
like  Lucy  there,  to  open  the  door  for  him.  But  then  John 
was  a  good  one  ;  and  there's  few  o'  them  like  him  now,  I 
doubt." 

Something  like  this,  I  venture  to  imagine,  was  passing 
through  the  old  woman's  mind  when  the  room  door  opened 
again,  and  Lucy  entered  with  Thomas  Worboise.  Her  face 
was  shining  like  a  summer  now,  and  a  conscious  pride  sat  on 
the  forehead  of  the  young  man  which  made  him  look  far 
nobler  than  he  has  yet  shown  himself  to  my  reader.  The  last 
of  a  sentence  came  into  the  room  with  him. 

"  So  you  see,  LuCy,  I  could  not  help  it.  My  father — How 
do  you  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Boxall  ?    What  a  blowing  night  it  is  ! 


Guild  Court.  25 

But  you  have  a  kind  of  swallow's  nest  here,  for  hardly  a  breath 
gets  into  the  court  when  our  windows  down  below  in  the 
counting-house  are  shaking  themselves  to  bits. " 

It  was  hardly  a  room  to  compare  to  a  swallow's  nest.  It 
was  a  very  large  room  indeed.  The  floor,  which  was  dark  with 
age,  was  uncarpetecl,  save  just  before  the  fire,  which  blazed 
brilliantly  in  a  small  kitchen-range,  curiously  contrasting  with 
the  tall,  carved  chimney-piece  above  it.  The  ceiling  corre- 
sponded in  style,  for  it  was  covered  with  ornaments — 

All  made  out  of  the  carver's  brain. 

And  the  room  was  strangely  furnished.  The  high  oak  settle 
of  a  farm-house  stood  back  against  the  wall  not  far  from  the 
fire,  and  a  few  feet  from  it  a  tall,  old-fashioned  piano,  which 
bore  the  name  of  Broadwood  under  the  cover.  At  the  side  of 
the  room  farthest  from  the  fire  stood  one  of  those  chests  of 
drawers,  on  which  the  sloping  lid  at  the  top  left  just  room  for 
a  glass-doored  book-case  to  stand,  rivaling  the  piano  in  hight. 
Then  there  was  a  sofa,  covered  with  chintz  plentifully  be- 
sprinkled with  rose-buds  ;  and  in  the  middle  of  the  room  a 
square  mahogany  table,  called  by  upholsterers  a  pembrohe,  I 
think,  the  color  of  which  was  all  but  black  with  age  and  man- 
ipulation, only  it  could  not  be  seen  n:w  because  it  was  covered 
with  a  check  of  red  and  blue.  A  few  mahogany  chairs, 
seated  with  horse  hair,  a  fire-screen  in  faded  red  silk,  a  wooden 
footstool  and  a  tall  backed  easy-chair,  covered  with  striped 
stuff,  almost  completed  the  furniture  of  the  nondescript 
apartment. 

Thomas  "Worboise  carried  a  chair  to  the  fire,  and  put  his 
feet  on  the  broad-barred  bright  kitchen  fender  in  front  of  it. 

"Are  your  feet  wet,  Thomas  ?"  asked  Lucy  with  some  gen- 
tle anxiety,  and  a  tremor  upon  his  name,  as  if  she  had  not  yet 
got  quite  used  to  saying  it  without  a  Mr.  before  it. 

"  Oh  no,  thank  you.  I  don't  mind  a  little  wet.  Hark  how 
the  wind  blows  in  the  old  chimney  up  there  !  It'll  be  an  awk- 
ward night  on  the  west  coast,  this.  I  wonder  what  it  feels 
like  to  be  driving  right  on  the  rocks  at  the  Land's  End,  or 
some  such  place." 

"Don't  talk  of  such  things  in  that  cool  way,  Mr.  Thomas. 
You  make  my  blood  run  cold,"  said  Mrs.  Boxall. 

"  He  doesn't  mean  it,  you  know,  grannie,"  said  Lucy  medi- 
tating. 

"But  I  do  mean  it.     I  should  like  to  know  how  it  feels," 


26  Guild  Court. 

persisted  Thomas — "with  the  very  shrouds,  as  taut  as  steel 
bars,  blowing  out  in  the  hiss  of  the  nor'wester." 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say  !  "  returned  the  old  lady,  with  some  indig- 
nation. "  You  would  like  to  know  how  it  felt  so  long  as  your 
muddy  boots  was  on  my  clean  fender  !  " 

Thomas  did  not  know  that  the  old  lady  had  lost  one  son  at 
sea,  and  had  another  the  captain  of  a  sailing-vessel,  or  he 
would  not  have  spoken  as  he  did.  But  he  was  always  wanting 
to  know  how  things  felt. '  Had  not  his  education  rendered  it  im- 
possible for  him  to  see  into  the  state  of  his  own  mind,  he  might, 
questioned  as  to  what  he  considered  the  ideal  of  life,  have  re- 
plied, "  A  continuous  succession  of  delicate  and  poetic  sensa- 
tions." Hence  he  had  made  many  a  frantic  effort  after  relig- 
ious sensations.  But  the  necessity  of  these  was  now  somewhat 
superseded  by  his  growing  attachment  to  Lucy,  and  the  sensa- 
tions consequent  upon  that. 

Up  to  this  moment,  in  his  carriage  and  speech,  he  had  been 
remarkably  different  from  himself,  as  already  shown  in  my 
history.  For  he  was,  or  thought  himself,  somebody  here  ;  and 
there  was  a  freedom  and  ease  about  his  manner,  amounting, 
in  fact,  to  a  slight  though  not  disagreeable  swagger,  which 
presented  him  to  far  more  advantage  than  he  had  in  the  pres- 
ence of  his  father  and  mother,  or  even  of  Mr.  Boxall  and  Mr. 
Stopper.  But  he  never  could  bear  any  one  to  be  displeased 
with  him  except  he  were  angry  himself.  So  when  Mrs.  Box- 
all  spoke  as  she  did,  his  countenance  fell.  He  instantly  re- 
moved his  feet  from  the  fender,  glanced  up  at  her  face,  saw 
that  she  was  really  indignant,  and,  missing  the  real  reason  of 
course,  supposed  that  it  was  because  he  had  been  indiscreet  in 
being  disrespectful  to  a  cherished  article  of  housewifery.  It 
was  quite  characteristic  of  Tom  that  he  instantly  pulled  his 
handkerchief  from  his  pocket,  and  began  therewith  to  restore 
the  brightness  of  the  desecrated  iron.  This  went  at  once  to 
the  old  lady's  heart.  She  snatched  the  handkerchief  out  of 
his  hand. 

"  Come,  come,  Mr.  Thomas.  Don't  ye  mind  an  old  woman 
like  that.  To  think  of  using  your  handkerchief  that  way  ! 
And  cambric  too  !  " 

Thomas  looked  up  in  surprise,  and  straightway  recovered 
his  behavior. 

"  I  didn't  think  of  your  fender,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  drat  the  fender  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Boxall,  with  more 
energy  than  refinement. 

And  so  the  matter  dropped,  and  all  sat  silent  for  a  few  mo- 


More  about  Guild  Court.  27 

merits,  Mrs.  Boxall  with  her  knitting,  and  Tom  and  Lucy  be- 
side each  other  with  their  thoughts.  Lucy  presently  returned 
to  their  talk  on  the  stair-case. 

"  So  you  were  out  at  dinner  on  Wednesday,  Thomas  ?  " 

"  Yes.  It  was  a  great  bore,  but  I  had  to  go. — Boxall's,  you 
know.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Boxall ;  but  that's  how  fel- 
lows like  me  talk,  you  know.  I  should  have  said  Mr.  Boxall. 
And  I  didn't  mean  that  he  was  a  bore.  That  he  is  not,  though 
he  is  a  little  particular — of  course.  I  only  meant  it  was  a  bore 
to  go  there  when  I  wanted  to  come  here." 

"  Is  my  cousin  Mary  very  pretty  ? "  asked  Lucy,  with  a 
meaning  in  her  tone  which  Thomas  easily  enough  understood. 

He  could  not  help  blushing,  for  he  remembered,  as  well  he 
might.  And  she  could  not  help  seeing,  for  she  had  eyes,  very 
large  ones,  and  at  least  as  loving  as  they  were  large. 

"Yes,  she' is  very  pretty,"  answered  Thomas;  "but  not 
nearly  so  pretty  as  you,  Lucy." 

Thomas,  then,  was  not  stupid,  although  my  reader  will  see 
that  he  was  weak  enough.  And  Lucy  was  more  than  half  sat- 
isfied, though  she  did  not  half  like  that  blush.  But  Thomas 
himself  did  not  like  either  the  blush  or  its  cause.  And  poor 
Lucy  knew  nothing  of  either,  only  meditated  upon  another 
blush,  quite  like  this  as  far  as  appearance  went,  but  with  a 
different  heart  to  it. 

Thomas  did  not  stop  more  than  half  an  hour.  "When  he 
left,  instead  of  walking  straight  out  of  Guild  Court  by  the 
narrow  paved  rjassage,  he  crossed  to  the  opposite  side  of  the 
court,  opened  the  door  of  a  more  ancient-looking  house,  and 
entered.  Reappearing — that  is,  to  the  watchful  eyes  of  Lucy 
manoeuvring  with  the  window-blind — after  about  two  minutes, 
he  walked  home  to  Highbury,  and  told  his  mother  that  he 
had  come  straight  from  his  German  master,  who  gave  him 
hopes  of  being  able,  before  many  months  should  have  passed, 
to  write  a  business  letter  in  intelligible  German. 


CHAPTER  V. 

MORE   ABOUT   GUILD    COURT. 

Mrs.    Boxall    was    the    mother   of  Richard    Boxall,  the 
governor  "  of  Thomas  Worboise.     Her  John  had  been  the 


28  Guild  Court. 

possessor  of  a  small  landed  property,  which  he  farmed  himself, 
and  upon  which  they  brought  up  a  family  of  three  sons  and 
one  daughter,  of  whom  Richard  was  the  eldest,  and  the  daugh- 
ter Lucy  the  youngest.  None  of  the  sons  showed  the  least 
inclination  to  follow  the  plow  or  take  any  relation  more  or 
less  dignified  toward  the  cultiyation  of  the  ancestral  acres. 
This  aversion,  when  manifested  by  Richard,  occasioned  his 
father  considerable  annoyance,  but  he  did  not  oppose  his  de- 
sire to  go  into  business  instead  of  farming  ;  for  he  had  found 
out  by  this  time  that  he  had  perpetuated  in  his  sons  a  certain 
family  doggedness  which  he  had  inherited  from  one  ancestor 
at  least — an  obstinacy  which  had  never  yet  been  overcome  by 
any  argument,  however  good.  He  yielded  to  the  inevitable, 
and  placed  him  in  a  merchant's  office  in  London,  where  Rich- 
ard soon  made  himself  of  importance.  When  his  second  son 
showed  the  same  dislike  to  draw  his  livelihood  .  directly  from 
the  bosom  of  the  earth,  and  revealed  a  distinct  preference  for 
the  rival  element,  with  which  he  had  made  some  acquaintance 
when  at  school  at  a  sea-port  at  no  great  distance  from  his  home, 
old  John  Boxall  was  still  more  troubled,  but  gave  his  consent 
— a  consent  which  was,  however,  merely  a  gloomy  negation  of 
resistance.  The  cheerfulness  of  his  wife  was  a  great  support 
to  him  under  what  he  felt  as  a  slight  to  himself  and  the  whole 
race  of  Boxalls  ;  but  he  began,  notwithstanding,  to  look  upon 
his  beloved  fields  with  a  jaundiced  eye,  and  the  older  he  grew 
the  more  they  reminded  him  of  the  degenerate  tastes  and 
heartlessness  of  his  boys.  When  he  discovered,  a  few  years 
after,  that  his  daughter  had  pledged  herself,  still  in  his  eyes  a 
mere  child,  to  a  music-master  who  visited  her  professionally 
from  the  next  town,  he  flew  at  last  into  a  terrible  rage,  which 
was  not  appeased  by  the  girl's  elopement  and  marriage.  He 
never  saw .  her  again.  Her  mother,  however,  was  not  long  in 
opening  a  communication  with  her,  and  it  was  to  her  that, 
Edward,  the  youngest  son,  fled  upon  occasion  of  a  quarrel 
with  his  father,  whose  temper  had  now  become  violent  as  well 
as  morose.  He  followed  his  second  brother's  example,  and 
went  to  sea.  Still  the  mother's  cheerfulness  was  little  abated  ; 
for,  as  she  said  to  herself,  she  had  no  reason  to  be  ashamed  of 
her  children.  None  of  them  had  done  any  thing  they  had  to 
be  ashamed  of,  and  why  should  she  be  vexed  ?  She  had  no 
idea  Lucy  had  so  much  spirit  in  her.  And  if  it  were  not  for 
the  old  man,  who  was  surely  over-fond  of  those  fields  of  his, 
she  could  hold  up  her  head  with  the  best  of  them  ;  for  there 
was  Dick — such  a  gentleman  to  be  sure  !  and  John,  third  mate 


More  about  Guild  Court.  29 

already  !  and  Cecil  Burton  sought  after  in  London,  to  give  his 
lessons,  as  if  he  were  one  of  the  old  masters  !  The  only  thing 
was  that  the  wind  blew  harder  at  night  since  Ned  went  to  sea  ; 
and  a  boy  was  in  more  danger  than  a  grown  man  and  a  third 
mate  like  John. 

And  so  it  proved ;  for  one  night  when  the  wind  blew  a  new 
hay-rick  of  his  father's  across  three  parishes,  it  blew  Edward's 
body  ashore  on  the  west  coast. 

Soon  after  this  a  neighboring  earl,  who  had  the  year  before 
paid  off  a  mortgage  on  his  lands,  proceeded  in  natural  process 
to  enlarge  his  borders  ;  and  while  there  was  plenty  that  had 
formerly  belonged  to  the  family  to  repurchase,  somehow  or 
another  took  it  into  his  head  to  begin  with  what  might  seem 
more  difficult  of  attainment.  But  John  Boxall  was  willing 
enough  to  part  with  his  small  patrimony — for  he  was  sick  of 
it — provided'  he  had  a  good  sum  of  ready  money,  and  the 
house  with  its  garden  and  a  paddock,  by  way  of  luck -penny, 
secured  to  him  for  his  own  life  and  that  of  his  wife.  This  was 
easily  arranged.  But  the  late  yeoman  moped  more  than  ever, 
and  died  within  a  twelvemonth,  leaving  his  money  to  his  wife. 
As  soon  as  he  was  laid  in  his  natural  inheritance  of  land  cubi- 
cal, his  wife  went  up  to  London  to  her  son  Richard,  who  was 
by  this  time  the  chief  manager  of  the  business  of  Messrs. 
Blunt  &  Baker.  To  him  she  handed  over  her  money  to  use 
for  the  advantage  of  both.  Paying  her  a  handsome  percent- 
age, he  invested  it  in  a  partnership  in  the  firm,  and  with  this 
fresh  excitement  to  his  energies,  soon  became,  influentially, 
the  principal  man  in  the  company.  The  two  other  partners 
were  both  old  men,  and  neither  had  a  son  or  near  relative 
whom  he  might  have  trained  to  fill  his  place.  So  in  the 
course  of  a  few  years,  they,  speaking  commercially,  fell  asleep, 
and.  in  the  course  of  a  few  more,  departed  this  life,  commer- 
cially and  otherwise.  It  was  somewhat  strange,  however,  that 
all  this  time  Richard  Boxall  had  given  his  mother  no  written 
acknowledgment  of  the  money  she  had  lent  him,  and  which 
had  been  the  foundation  of  his  fortune.  A  man's  faults  are 
sometimes  the  simple  reverses  of  his  virtues,  and  not  the 
results  of  his  vices. 

When  his  mother  came  first  to  London,  he  had  of  course 
taken  her  home  to  his  house  and  introduced  her  to  his  wife, 
who  was  a  kind  and  even  warm-hearted  woman.  But  partly 
from  prudence,  partly  from  habit,  Mrs.  Boxall,  senior,  would 
not  consent  to  become  the  permanent  guest  of  Mrs.  Boxall, 
junior,  and  insisted  on  taking  a  lodging  in  the  neighborhood. 


30  Guild  Court. 

It  was  not  long,  however,  before  she  left  the  first,  and  betook 
herself  to  a  second  ;  nor  long  again  before  she  left  the  second, 
and  betook  herself  to  a  third.  For  her  nature  was  like  a  fresh, 
bracing  wind,  which,  when  admitted  within  the  precincts  of  a 
hot-house,  where  everything  save  the  fire  is  neglected,  proves 
a  most  unwelcome  presence,  yea,  a  dire  dismay.  Indeed,  ad- 
mirably as  she  had  managed  and  borne  with  her  own  family, 
Mrs.  Boxall  was  quite  unfit  to  come  into  such  habitual  con- 
tact with.another  household  as  followed  from  her  occupying  a 
part  of  the  same  dwelling.  Her  faith  in  what  she  had  tried 
with  success  herself,  and  her  repugnance  to  whatever  she  had 
not  been  accustomed,  to,  were  such  that  her  troublesomeness 
when  she  became  f  amiliar4  was  equal  to  the  good  nature  which 
at  first  so  strongly  recommended  her.  Hence  her  changes  of 
residence  were  frequent. 

Up  to  the  time  when  he  became  a  sleeping  partner,  Mr. 
Blunt  had  resided  in  Guild  Court — that  is,  the  house  door  was 
in  the  court,  while  the  lower  part  of  the  house,  forming  the 
offices  of  the  firm,  was  entered  from  what  was  properly  a  lane, 
though  it  was  called  Bagot  Street.  As  soon  as  mother  and 
son  heard  that  Mr.  Blunt  had  at  length  bought  a  house  in  the 
country,  the  same  thought  arose  in  the  mind  of  each — might 
not  Mrs.  Boxall  go  and  live  there  ?  The  house  belonged  to 
the  firm,  and  they  could  not  well  let  it,  for  there  was  more 
than  one  available  connection  between  the  two  portions  of  the 
building,  although  only  one  had  lately  been  in  use,  a  door, 
namely,  by  which  Mr.  Blunt  used  to  pass  immediately  from 
the  glass-partitioned  part  of  the  co.nnting-house  to  the  foot  of 
the  oak  staircase  already  described  ;  while  they  used  two  of 
the  rooms  in  the  house  as  places  of  deposit  for  old  books  and 
papers,  for  which  there  was  no  possible  accommodation  in  the 
part  devoted  to  active  business.  Hence  nothing  better  could 
be  devised  than  that  Mrs.  Boxall,  senior,  should  take  up  her 
abode  in  the  habitable  region.  This  she  made  haste  to  do,  ac- 
companied by  a  young  servant.  With  her  she  soon  quarreled, 
however,  and  thereafter  relied  upon  the  ministrations  of  a 
charwoman.  The  door  between  the  house  and  the  counting- 
house  was  now  locked,  and  the  key  of  it  so  seldom  taken  from 
the  drawer  of  Mr.  Boxall,  that  it  came  to  be  regarded  almost 
as  a  portion  of  the  wall.  So  much  for  the  inner  connection  of 
Guild.  Cotirt  and  Bagot  Street. 

Some  years  after  Mrs.  Boxall  removed  to  London,  Mr.  Bur- 
ton, the  music-master,  died.  They  had  lived  from  hand  to 
mouth,  as  so  many  families  of  uncertain  income  are  compelled 


More  about  Guild  Court.  31 

to  do,  and  his  unexpected  death  left  his  wife  and  child  without 
the  means  of  procuring  immediate  necessities.  Inheriting  the 
narrowness  and  prejudices  of  his  descent  and  of  his  social  po- 
sition to  a  considerable  degree,  Mr.  Boxall  had  never  come  to 
regard  his  sister's  match  with  a  music-master  as  other  than  a 
degradation  to  the  family,  and  had,  in  his  best  humors,  never 
got  further  in  the  humanities  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  than 
to  patronize  his  brother-in-law  ;  though  if  size  and  quality  go 
for  anything  in  existence  itself,  as  they  do  in  all  its  accidents, 
Eichard  Boxall  was  scarcely  comparable,  honest  and'just  man 
as  he  was,  to  Cecil  Burton  ;  who,  however,  except  that  he  was 
the  father  of  Lucy,  and  so  in  some  measure  accounts  for  her, 
is  below  the  western  horizon  of  our  story,  and  therefore  need 
scarcely  be  alluded  to  again.  This  behavior  of  her  brother 
was  more  galling  to  Mrs.  Burton  than  to  her  husband,  who 
smiled  down  any  allusion  to  it ;  and  when  she  was  compelled 
to  accept  Richard's  kindness  in  the  shape  of  money,  upon  the 
death  of  Mr.  Burton,  it  was  with  a  bitterness  of  feeling  which 
showed  itself  plainly  enough  to  wound  the  self-love  of  the 
consciously  benevolent  man  of  business.  But  from  the  first 
there  had  been  the  friendliest  relations  between  the  mother 
and  daughter,  and  as  it  was  only  from  her  determination  to 
avoid  all  ground  of  misunderstanding,  that  Mrs.  Boxall  had 
not  consented  to  take  up  her  abode  with  the  Burtons.  Conse- 
quently, after  the  death  of  Mr.  Burton,  the  mother  drew  yet 
closer  to  the  daughter,  while  the  breach  between  brother  and 
sister  was  widened. 

Two  years  after  the  death  of  her  husband,  Mrs.  Burton 
followed  him.  Then  Mrs.  Boxall  took  her  grandchild  Lucy 
home  to  Guild  Court,  and  between  the  two  there  never  arose 
the  question  of  which  should  be  the  greater.  It  often  happens 
that  even  a  severe  mother  becomes  an  indulgent  grandmother, 
partly  from  the  softening  and  mellowing  influences  of  time, 
partly  from  increase  of  confidence  in  child-nature  generally, 
and  perhaps  also,  in  part,  from  a  diminished  sense  of  responsi- 
bility in  regard  to  a  child  not  immediately  her  own.  Hence 
grandparents  who  have  brought  up  their  own  children  well 
are  in  danger  of  spoiling  severely  those  of  their  sons  and 
daughters.  And  such  might  have  been  the  case  with  Mrs. 
Boxall  and  Lucy,  had  Lucy  been  of  a  more  spoilable  nature. 
But  she  had  no  idea  of  how  much  she  had  her  own  way,  nor 
would  it  have  made  any  difference  to  her  if  she  had  known 
it.  There  was  a  certain  wonderful  delicacy  of  moral  touch 
about  her  in  the  discrimination  of  what  was  becoming,  as  well 


32  Guild  Court. 

as  of  what  was  right,  which  resulted  in  a  freedom  the  legalist 
of  society  would  have  called  boldness,  and  a  restraint 
which  the  same  judge  would  have  designated  particularity ; 
for  Lucy's  ways  were  not,  and  could  not  be,  her  ways,  the  one 
fearing  and  obeying,  as  she  best  could,  existing  laws  hard  to 
interpret,  the  other  being  a  law  unto  herself.  The  harmonies 
of  the  music  by  which,  from  her  earliest  childhood,  her  grow- 
ing brain  had  beer  interpenetrated,  had,  by  her  sweet  will, 
been  transformed  into  harmonies  of  thought,  feeling,  and  ac- 
tion. She  was  not  clever,  but  then  she  did  not  think  she  was 
clever,  and  therefore  it  was  of  no  consequence ;  for  she  was 
not  dependent  upon  her  intellect  for  those  judgments  which 
alone  are  of  importance  in  the  reality  of  things,  and  in 
which  clever  people  are  just  as  likely  to  go  wrong  as  any 
other  body.  She  had  a  great  gift  in  music — a  gift  which 
Thomas  Worboise  had  never  yet  discovered,  and  which,  at  this 
period  of  his  history,  he  was  incapable  of  discovering,  for  he 
had  not  got  beyond  the  toffee  of  the  drawing-room  sentiment 
— the  song  which  must  be  sent  forth  to  the  universe  from  the 
pedestal  of  ivory  shoulders.  But  two  lines  of  a  ballad  from 
Lucy  Barton  were  worth  all  the  music,  "She  walks  in 
beaucy,"  included,  that  Mary  Boxall  could  sing  or  play. 

Lucy  had  not  seen  her  cousins  for  years.  Her  uncle  Bich- 
ard,  though  incapable  of  being  other  than  satisfied  that  the 
orphan  should  be  an  inmate  of  the  house  in  Guild  Court,  could 
not,  or  at  least  did  not,  forget  the  mildly  defiant  look  with 
which  she  retreated  from  his  outstretched  hand,  and  took  her 
place  beside  her  mother,  on  the  sole  occasion  on  which  he 
called  upon  his  sister  after  her  husband's  death.  She  had 
heard  remarks — and  being  her  mother's,  she  could  not  ques- 
tion the  justice  of  them.  Hence  she  had  not  once,  since  she 
had  taken  up  her  abode  with  her  grandmother,  been  invited 
to  visit  her  cousins ;  and  there  was  no  affectation,  but  in 
truth  a  little  anxiety,  in  the  question  she  asked  Thomas  Wor- 
boise about  Mary  Boxall's  beauty.  But,  indeed,  had  she 
given  her  uncle  no  such  offense,  I  have  every  reason  to  believe 
that  her  society  would  not  have  been  much  courted  by  his 
family.  "When  the  good  among  rich  relations  can  be  loving 
without  condescension,  and  the  good  among  poor  relations  can 
make  sufficient  allowance  for  the  rich,  then  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  will  be  nigh  at  hand.  Mr.  Boxall  shook  hands  with 
his  niece  when  he  met  her,  asked  her  after  his  mother,  and 
passed  on. 

But  Lucy  was  not  dependent  on  her  uncle,  scarcely  on  her 


More  about  Guild  Court.  33 

grandmother,  even.  Before  her  mother's  death,  almost  child 
as  she  still  was,  she  had  begun  to  give  lessons  in  music  to  a 
younger  child  than  herself,  the  daughter  of  one  of  her  father's 
favorite  pupils,  who  had  married  a  rich  merchant  ;  and  these 
lessons  she  continued.  She  was  a  favorite  with  the  family, 
who  were  Jews,  living  in  one  of  the  older  quarters  of  the  west 
end  of  London ;  and  they  paid  her  handsomely,  her  age  and 
experience  taken  into  account.  Every  morning,  except  Satur- 
day, she  went  by  the  underground  railway  to  give- an  hour's 
lesson  to  Miriam  Morgenstern,  a  gorgeous  little  eastern,  whom 
her  parents  had  no  right  to  dress  in  such  foggy  colors  as  she 
wore. 

Now  a  long  farewell  to  preliminaries. 

Lucy  was  just  leaving  her  home  one  morning  to  go  to  her 
pupil,  and  had  turned  into  the  nagged  passage  which  led  from 
the  archway  into  the  court,  when  she  met  a  little  girl  of  her 
acquaintance,  whom,  with  her  help,  I  shall  now  present  to  my 
readers.  She  was  a  child  of  eight,  but  very  small  for  her  age. 
Her  hair  was  neatly  parted  and  brushed  on  each  side  of  a  large, 
smooth  forehead,  projecting  over  quiet  eyes  of  blue,  made  yet 
quieter  by  the  shadow  of  those  brows.  The  rest  of  her  face 
was  very  diminutive.  A  soberness  as  of  complete  womanhood, 
tried  and  chastened,  lay  upon  her.  She  looked  as  if  she  had 
pondered  upon  life  and  its  goal,  and  had  made  up  her  little 
mind  to  meet  its  troubles  with  patience.  She  was  dressed  in 
a  cotton  frock  printed  with  blue  rose-buds,  faded  by  many 
waters  and  much  soap.  When  she  spoke,  she  used  only  one 
side  of  her  mouth  for  the  purpose,  and  then  the  old-fask- 
ionedness  of  her  look  rose  almost  to  the  antique,  so  that  you 
could  have  fancied  her  one  of  the  time-belated  good  people  that, 
leaving  the  green  forest-rings,  had  wandered  into  the  city  and 
become  a  Christian  at  a  hundred  years  of  age. 

"  Well,  Mattie,"  said  Lucy,  "how  are  you  this  morning  ?  " 

*'  I  am  quite  well,  I  thank  you,  miss,"  anwered  Mattie.  "I 
don't  call  this  morning.  The  church  clock  struck  eleven  five 
minutes  ago." 

This  was  uttered  with  a  smile  from  the  half  of  her  mouth 
which  seemed  to  say,  "  I  know  you  want  to  have  a  little  fun 
with  me  by  using  wrong  names  for  things  because  I  am  a  little 
girl,  and  little  girls  can  be  taken  in  ;  but  it  is  of  no  use  with 
me,  though  I  can  enjoy  the  joke  of  it." 

Lucy  smiled  too,  but  not  much,  for  she  knew  the  child. 

"  What  do  you  call  the  morning,  then,  Mattie  ? "  she 
asked. 


34  Guild  Court. 

"  Well,"— she  almost  always  began  her  sentences  with  a  Well 
— "I  call  it  morning  before  the  sun  is  up." 

"  But  how  do  you  know  when  the  sun  is  up  ?  London  is  so 
foggy,  you  know,  Mattie." 

"  Is  it  ?  I  didn't  know.  Are  there  places  without  fog, 
miss  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  many." 

"  Well,  about  the  sun.  I  always  know  what  he's  about, 
miss.     I've  got  a  almanac." 

"But  you  don't  understand  the  almanac,  do  you  ?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  mean  to  say  I  understand  all  about  it,  but  I 
always  know  what  time  the  sun  rises  and  goes  to  bed,  you 
know. " 

Lucy  had  found  she  was  rather  early  for  the  train,  and  from 
where  she  stood  she  could  see  the  clock  of  St.  Jacob's,  which 
happened  to  be  a  reliable  one.  Therefore  she  went  on  to 
amuse  herself  with  the  child. 

"  But  how  is  it  that  we  don't  see  him,  if  he  gets  up  when 
the  almanac  says,  Mattie  ? " 

"Well,  you  see,  miss,  he  sleeps  in  a  crib.  And  the  sides  of 
it  are  houses  and  churches,  and  St.  Paulses,  and  the  likes  of 
that." 

"Yes,  yes  ;  but  some  days  we  see  him,  and  others  we  don't. 
We  don't  see  him  to-day,  now." 

"Well,  miss,  I  dare  say  he's  cross  some  mornings,  and 
keeps  the  blankets  about  him  after  he's  got  his  head  up." 

Lucy  could  not  help  thinking  of  Milton's  line — for  of  the 
few  poems  she  knew,  one  was  the  "  Ode  on  the  Nativity  " — 

So,  when  the  Sun  in  bed, 
Curtain'd  with  cloudy  red, 
Pillows  his  chin  upon  an  orient  wave. 

But  the  child  laughed  so  queerly,  that  it  was  impossible  to  tell 
whether  or  how  much  those  were  her  real  ideas  about  the 
sunrise. 

"  How  is  your  father  ?"  Lucy  asked. 

"Do  you  mean  my  father  or  my  mother  ?" 

"I  mean  your  father,  of  course,  when  I  say  so." 

"  Yes,  but  I  have  a  mother,  too." 

Lucy  let  her  have  her  way,  for  she  did  not  quite  understand 
her.  Only  she  knew  that  the  child's  mother  had  died  two  or 
three  years  ago. 

"  Well,"  resumed  the  child,  "my  father  is  quite  well,  thank 


More  about  Guild  Court  35 

God ;  and  so  is  my  mother.  There  he  is,  looking  down  at 
us." 

"Who  do  you  mean,  Mattie  ?"  asked  Lucy,  now  be- 
wildered. 

"  Well,  my  mother,"  answered  the  child,  with  a  still  odder 
half  smile. 

Lucy  looked  up,  and  saw — hut  a  little  description  is  neces- 
sary. They  were  standing,  as  I  have  said  already,  in  the 
flagged  passage  which  led  to,  and  post-officially  considered, 
formed  part  of  Guild  Court.  The  archway  from  Bagot  Street 
into  this  passage  was  as  it  were  tunneled  through  a  house 
facing  the  street,  and  from  this  house  a  wall,  stretching  inward 
to  the  first  house  in  the  court  proper,  formed  one  side  of  the 
passage.  About  the  middle,  this  wall  broke  into  two  work- 
shops, the  smallest  and  strangest  ever  seen  out  of  the  east. 
There  was  no  roof  visible — that  lay  behind  the  curtain-wall ; 
but  from  top  to  bottom  of  the  wall,  a  bight  of  about  nine 
feet,  there  was  glass,  divided  in  the  middle  so  as  to  form  two 
windows,  one  above  the  other.  So  likewise  on  the  right-band 
side  of  the  glass  were  two  doors,  or  hatches,  one  above  the 
other.  The  tenement  looked  as  if  the  smallest  of  rooms  bad 
been  divided  into  two  horizontally  by  a  floor  in  the  middle, 
thus  forming  two  cells,  which  could  not  have  been  more  than 
five  feet  by  four,  and  four  feet  in  hight.  In  the  lower,  how- 
ever, a  little  hight  had  been  gained  by  sinking  the  floor,  to 
which  a  single  step  led  down.  In  this  under  cell  a  cobbler  sat, 
hammering  away  at  his  lap-stone — a  little  man,  else  he  could 
hardly  have  sat  there,  or  even  got  in  without  discomfort. 
Every  now  and  then  he  glanced  up  at  the  girl  and  the  child, 
but  never  omitted  a  blow  in  consequence.  Over  his  head,  on 
the  thin  floor  between,  sat  a  still  smaller  man,  cross-legged 
like  a  Turk,  busily  "  plying  his  needle  and  thread."  His  hair, 
which  standing  straight  up  gave  a  look  of  terror  to  his  thin, 
pale  countenance,  almost  touched  the  roof.  It  was  the  only 
luxuriance  about  him.  As  plants  run  to  seed,  he  seemed  to 
have  run  to  hair.  A  calm,  keen  eye  underneath  its  towering 
forest,  revealed  observation  and  peacefulness.  He,  too,  occa- 
sionally looked  from  his  work,  but  only  in  the  act  of  drawing 
the  horizontal  thread,  when  his  eyes  had  momentary  furlough, 
moving  in  alternate  oscillation  with  his  hand.  At  the  moment 
when  the  child  said  so,  he  was  looking  down  in  a  pause  in 
which  he  seemed  for  the  moment  to  have  forgotten  his  work 
in  his  interest  in  the  pair  below.  He  might  be  forty,  or  fifty 
or  sixty — no  one  could  tell  which. 


36  Guild  Court 

Lucy  looked  up,  and  said,  "  That  is  Mr.  Spelt ;  that  is  not 
your  mother." 

"  Well,  but  I  call  him  my  mother.  I  can't  have  two  fathers, 
you  know.     So  I  call  Mr.  Spelt  my  mother  ;  and  so  he  is." 

Here  she  looked  up  and  smiled  knowingly  to  the  little  tailor, 
who,  leaning  forward  to  the  window,  through  which,  reaching 
from  roof  to  floor  of  his  cage,  his  whole  form  was  visible, 
nodded  friendlily  to  the  little  girl  in  acknowledgment  of  her 
greeting.     But  it  was  now  time  for  Lucy  to  go. 

As  soon  as  she  had  disappeared  beyond  the  archway,  Mattie 
turned  toward  the  •  workshops.  Mr.  Spelt  saw  her  coming, 
aud  before  she  had  reached  them,  the  upper  half  of  the  door 
was  open,  and  he  was  stretching  down  his  arms  to  lift  her 
across  the  shoemaking  region,  into  his  own  more  celestial 
realm  of  tailoring.  In  a  moment  she  was  sitting  in  the  farth- 
est and  snuggest  corner,  not  cross-legged,  but  with  her  feet 
invisible  in  a  heap  of  cuttings,  from  which  she  was  choosing 
what  she  would — always  with  a  reference  to  Mr.  Spelt— for 
the  dressing  of  a  boy-doll  which  he  had  given  her. 

This  was  a  very  usual  proceeding — so  much  so  that  Mattie 
and  the  tailor  sat  for  nearly  an  hour  without  a  word  passing 
between  them  beyond  what  sprung  from  the  constructive  exi- 
gencies of  the  child.  Neither  of  them  was  given  to  much  utter- 
ance, though  each  had  something  of  the  peculiar  gift  of  the 
Ancient  Mariner,  namely,  "strange  power  of  speech."  They 
would  sit  together  sometimes  for  half  a  day  without  saying  a 
word  ;  and  then  again  there  would  be  an  oasis  of  the  strangest 
conversation  in  the  desert  of  their  silence — a  bad  simile,  for 
their  silence  must  have  been  a  thoughtful  one  to  blossom  into 
such  speech.  But  the  first  words  Mattie  uttered  on  this  occa- 
sion, were  of  a  somewhat  mundane  character.  She  heard  a 
footstep  pass  below.  She  was  too  far  back  in  the  cell  to  see 
who  it  was,  and  she  did  not  lift  her  eyes  from  her  work. 

"When  the  cat's  away,  the  mice  will  play,"  she  said. 

"What  are  you  thinking  about,  Mattie  ?"  asked  the  tailor. 

"  Well,  wasn't  that  Mr.  Worboise  that  passed  ?  Mr.  Box- 
all  must  be  out.  But  he  needn't  go  there,  for  somebody's 
always  out  this  time  o'  day." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Mattie  ?  "  again  asked  the  tailor. 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  don't  understand  such  things,  Mr. 
Spelt,  not  being  a  married  man." 

Poor  Mr.  Spelt  had  had  a  wife  who  had  killed  herself  by 
drinking  all  his  earnings ;  but  perhaps  Mattie  knew  nothing 
about  that. 


More  about  Guild  Court.  37 

"No  more  I  am.     You  must  explain  it  to  me." 

"  Well,  you  see,  young  people  will  be  young  people." 

"Who  told  you  that  ?" 

"  Old  Mrs.  Boxall  says  so.  And  that's  why  Mr.  Worboise 
goes  to  see  Miss  Burton,  /  know.  I  told  you  so,"  she  added, 
as  she  heard  his  step  returning.  But  Thomas  bore  a  huge 
ledger  under  his  arm,  for  which  Mr.  Stopper  had  sent  him 
round  to  the  court.  Very  likely,  however,  had  Lucy  been  at 
home,  he  might  haye  laid  a  few  minutes  more  to  the  account 
of  the  errand. 

"  So,  so  ! "  said  the  tailor.     "  That's  it,  is  it,  Mattie  ?  " 

"Yes;  but- we  don't  say  anything  about  such  things,  you 
know." 

"  Oh,  of  course  not,"  answered  Mr.  Spelt ;  and  the  conver- 
sation ceased. 

After  a  long  pause,  the  child  spoke  again. 

"  Is  God  good  to  you  to-day,  mother  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Mattie.     God  is  always  good  to  us." 

"  But  he's  better  some  days  than  others,  isn't  he  ?  " 

To  this  question  the  tailor  did  not  know  what  to  reply,  and 
therefore,  like  a  wise  man,  did  not  make  the  attempt.  He 
asked  her  instead,  as  he  had  often  occasion  to  do  with  Mattie, 
what  she  meant. 

"  Don't  you  know  what  I  mean,  mother  ?  Don't  you  know 
God's  better  to  us  some  days  than  others  ?  Yes ;  and  he's 
better  to  some  people  than  he  is  to  others. " 

"  I  am  sure  he's  always  good  to  you  and  me,  Mattie." 

"Well,  yes  ;  generally." 

"Why  don't  you  say  always?" 

"  Because  I'm  not  sure  about  it.  Now  to-day  it's  all  very 
well.    But  yesterday  the  sun  shone  in  the  window  a  whole  hour. " 

"  And  I  drew  down  the  blind  to  shut  it  out,"  said  Mr.  Spelt, 
thoughtfully. 

"Well,"  Mattie  went  on,  without  heeding  her  friend's 
remark,  "  he  could  make  the  sun  shine  every  day,  if  he  liked. 
— I  suppose,  he  could,"  she  added,  doubtfully. 

"I  don't  think  we  should  like  it,  if  he  did,"  returned  Mr. 
Spelt,  "  for  the  drain  down  below  smells  bad  in  the  hot 
weather." 

"  But  the  rain  might  come — at  night,  I  mean,  not  in  the 
day-time,  and  wash  them  all  out.     Mightn't  it,  mother  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  the  heat  makes  people  ill.  And  if  you  had  such 
hot  weather  as  they  have  in  some  parts,  as  I  am  told,  you 
would  be  glad  enough  of  a  day  like  this." 


38  Guild  Court. 

"  Well,  why  haven't  they  a  day  like  this,  when  they  want 
it  ?  " 

"  God  knows,"  said  Mr.  Spelt,  whose  magazine  was  nearly 
exhausted,  and  the  enemy  pressing  on  vigorously. 

"Well,  that's  what  I  say.  God  knows,  and  why  doesn't  he 
help  it?" 

And  Mr.  Spelt  surrendered,  if  silence  was  surrender.  Mat- 
tie  did  not  press  her  advantage,  however,  and  the  besieged 
plucked  up  heart  a  little. 

"  I  fancy  perhaps,  Mattie,  he  leaves  something  for  us  to  do. 
You  know  they  cut  out  the  slop-work  at  the  shop,  and  I  can't 
do  much  more  with  that  but  put  the  pieces  together.  But 
when  a  repairing  job  comes  in,  I  can  contrive  a  bit  then,  and 
I  like  that  better." 

Mr.  Spelt's  meaning  was  not  very  clear,  either  to  himself  or 
to  Mattie.  But  it  involved  the  shadow  of  a  great  truth — that 
all  the  discords  we  hear  in  the  universe  around  us,  are  God's 
trumpets  sounding  a  reveille  to  the  sleeping  human  will,  which 
once  working  harmoniously  with  his,  will  soon  bring  all  things 
into  a  pure  and  healthy  rectitude  of  operation.  Till  a  man 
has  learned  to  be  happy  without  the  sunshine,  and  therein 
becomes  capable  of  enjoying  it  perfectly,  it  is  well  that  the 
shine  and  the  shadow  should  be  mingled,  so  as  God  only  knows 
how  to  mingle  them.  To  effect  the  blessedness  for  which 
God  made  him,  man  must  become  a  fellow-worker  with 
God. 

After  a  little  while  Mattie  resumed  operations. 

"  But  you  can't  say,  mother,  that  God  isn't  better  to  some 
people  than  to  other  people.  He's  surely  gooder  to  you  and 
me  than  he  is  to  Poppie." 

"Who's  Poppie  ?"  asked  Mr.  Spelt,  sending  out  a  flag  of 
negotiation. 

"Well,  there  she  is — down  in  the  gutter,  I  suppose,  as 
usual,"  answered  Mattie,  without  lifting  her  eyes. 

The  tailor  peeped  out  of  his  house-front,  and  saw  a  bare- 
footed child  in  the  court  below.  What  she  was  like  I  shall 
take  a  better  opportunity  of  informing  my  reader.  For  at 
this  moment  the  sound  of  strong  nails  tapping  sharply  reached 
the  ear  of  Mr.  Spelt  and  his  friend.  The  sound  came  from  a 
window  just  over  the  archway,  hence  at  right  angles  to  Mr. 
Spelt's  workshop.  It  was  very  dingy  with  dust  and  smoke, 
allowing  only  the  outline  of  a  man's  figure  to  be  seen  from  the 
court.  This  much  Poppie  saw,  and  taking  the  tapping  to  be 
intended  for  her,  fled  from  the  court  on  soundless  feet.     But 


More  about  Guild  Court.  39 

Mattie  rose  at  once  from  her  corner,  and,  laying  aside  cuttings 
and  doll,  stuck  her  needle  and  thread  carefully  in  the  bosom 
of  her  frock,  saying  : 

"  That's  my  father  a-wanting  of  me.  I  wonder  what  he 
wants  now.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  how  he  would  get  on 
without  me.  And  that  is  a  comfort.  Poor  man  !  he  misses 
my  mother  more  than  I  do,  I  believe.  He's  always  after  me. 
Well,  I'll  see  you  again  in  the  afternoon  if  I  can.  And,  if 
not,  you  may  expect  me  about  the  same  hour  to-morrow." 

While  she  thus  spoke  she  was  let  down  from  the  not  very 
airy  hight  of  the  workshop  on  to  the  firm  pavement  below ; 
the  tailor  stretching  his  arms  with  her  from  above,  like  a  bird 
of  prey  with  a  lamb  in  his  talons.  The  last  words  she  spoke 
from  the  ground,  her  head  thrown  back  between  her  shoulders 
that  she  might  look  the  tailor  in  the  face,  who  was  stooping 
over  her  like  an  angel  from  a  cloud  in"  the  family  Bible. 

"Very  well,  Mattie,"  returned  Mr.  Spelt ;  "you  know  your 
own  corner  well  enough  by  this  time,  I  should  think." 

So  saying,  he  drew  himself  carefully  into  his  shell,  for  the 
place  was  hardly  more,  except  that  he  could  just  work  without 
having  to  get  outside  of  it  first.  A  soft  half  smile  glimmered 
on  his  face ;  for  although  he  was  so  used  to  Mattie's  old- 
fashioned  ways,  that  they  scarcely  appeared  strange  to  him 
now,  the  questions  that  she  raised  were  food  for  the  little 
tailor's  meditation — all  day  long,  upon  occasion.  For  some 
tailors  are  given  to  thinking,  and  when  they  are  they  have 
good  opportunity  of  indulging  their  inclinations.  And  it  is 
wonderful  what  a  tailor's  thinking  may  come  to,  especially  if 
he  reads  his  N  ew  Testament.  Now,  strange  perhaps  to  tell, 
though  Mr.  Spelt  never  went  to  church,  he  did  read  his  New 
Testament.  And  the  little  tailor  was  a  living  soul.  He  was 
one  of  those  few  who  seem  to  be  born  with  a  certain  law  of 
order  in  themselves,  a  certain  tidiness  of  mind,  as  it  were,  which 
would  gladly  see  all  the  rooms  or  regions  of  thought  swept 
and  arranged  ;  and  not  only  makes  them  orderly,  but  prompts 
them  to  search  after  the  order  of  the  universe.  They  would 
gladly  believe  in  the  harmony  of  things ;  and  although  the 
questions  they  feel  the  necessity  of  answering  take  the  crudest 
forms  and  the  most  limited  and  individual  application,  they 
yet  are  sure  to  have  something  to  do  with  the  laws  that  govern 
the  world.  Hence  it  was  that  the  partial  misfit  of  a  pair  of 
moleskin  or  fustian  trowsers — for  seldom  did  his  originality 
find  nobler  material  to  exercise  itself  upon — would  make  him 
quite  miserable,  even  though  the  navvy  or  dock-laborer  might 


•40  Guild  Court. 

be  perfectly  satisfied  with  the  result,  and  ready  to  pay  the 
money  for  them  willingly.  But  it  was  seldom,  too,  that  he 
had  even  such  a  chance  of  indulging  in  the  creative  element 
of  the  tailor's  calling,  though  he  might  have  done  something 
of  the  sort,  if  he  would,  in  the  way  of  altering.  Of  that 
branch  of  the  trade,  however,  he  was  shy,  knowing  that  it  was 
most  frequently  in  request  with  garment  unrighteously  come 
by ;  and  Mr.  Spelt's  thin  hands  were  clean. 

He  had  not  sat  long  after  Mattie  left  him,  before  she  reap- 
peared from  under  the  archway. 

"No,  no,  mother,"  she  said,  "I  ain't  going  to  perch  this 
time.  But  father  sends  his  compliments,  and  will  you  come 
and  take  a  dish  of  tea  with  him  and  me  this  afternoon .?  " 

"Yes,  Mattie  ;  if  you  will  come  and  fetch  me  when  the 
tea's  ready." 

"Well,  you  had  better  not  depend  on  me  ;  for  I  shall  have 
a  herring  to  cook,  and  a  muffin  to  toast,  besides  the  tea  to 
make  and  set  on  the  hob,  and  the  best  china  to  get  out  of  the 
black  cupboard,  and  no  end  o'  things  to  see  to." 

"But  you  needn't  get  out  the  best  china  for  me,  you  know." 

"  Well,  I  like  to  do  what's  proper.  And  you  just  keep 
your  eye  on  St.  Jacob's,  Mr.  Spelt,  and  at  five  o'clock,  when 
it  has  struck  two  of  them,  you  get  down  and  come  in,  and 
you'll  find  your  tea  a-waiting  of  you.     There  !  " 

With  which  conclusive  form  of  speech,  Mattie  turned  and 
walked  back  through  the  archway.  She  never  ran,  still  less 
skipped  as  most  children  do,  but  held  feet  and  head  alike 
steadily  progressive,  save  for  the  slightest  occasional  toss  of 
the  latter,  which,  as  well  as  her  mode  of  speech,  revealed  the 
element  of  conceit  which  had  its  share  in  the  oddity  of  the 
little  damsel. 

When  two  strokes  of  the  five  had  sounded  in  the  ears  of  Mr. 
Spelt,  he  laid  his  work  aside,  took  his  tall  hat  from  one  of  the 
corners  where  it  hung  on  a  peg,  leaped  lightly  from  his  perch 
into  the  court,  shut  his  half  of  the  door,  told  the  shoemaker 
below  that  he  was  going  to  Mr.  Kitely's  to  tea,  and  would  be 
obliged  if  he  would  fetch  him  should  anyone  want  him,  and 
went  through  the  archway.  There  was  a  door  to  Mr.  Kitely's 
house  under  the  archway,  but  the  tailor  preferred  going 
round  the  corner  to  the  shop  door  in  Bagot  Street.  By  this 
he  entered  Jacob  Kitely's  domain,  an  old  book-shop,  of  which 
it  required  some  previous  knowledge  to  find  the  way  to  the 
back  premises.  For  the  whole  cubical  space  of  the  shop  was 
divided  and  subdivided  into  a  labyrinth  of  book-shelves,  those 


More  about  Guild  Court.  41 

in  front  filled  with  decently  if  not  elegantly  bound  books,  and 
those  behind  with  a  multitude  innumerable  of  books  in  all 
conditions  of  dinginess,  mustiness,  and  general  shabbiness. 
Among  these  Jacob  Kitely  spent  his  time  patching  and  mend- 
ing them,  and  drawing  up  catalogues.  He  was  not  one  of 
those  booksellers  who  are  so  fond  of  their  books  that  they  can- 
not bear  to  part  with  them,  and  therefore  when  they  are  for- 
tunate enough  to  lay  their  hands  upon  a  rare  volume,  the 
highest  pleasure  they  know  in  life,  justify  themselves  in  keep- 
ing it  by  laying  a  manuscript  price  upon  it,  and  considering  it 
so  much  actual  property.  Such  men,  perhaps,  know  some- 
thing about  the  contents  of  their  wares ;  but  while  few  sur- 
passed Jacob  in  a  knowledge  of  the  outside  of  books,  from  the 
proper  treatment  of  covers  in  the  varying  stages  of  dilapida- 
tion, and  of  leaves  when  water-stained  or  mildewed  or  dry- 
rotted  to  the  different  values  of  better  and  best  editions,  cut 
and  uncut  leaves,  tall  copies,  and  folios  shortened  by  the 
plow  into  doubtful  quartos,  he  never  advanced  beyond  the 
title-page,  except  when  one  edition  differed  from  another,  and 
some  examination  was  necessary  to  determine  to  which  the 
copy  belonged.  And  not  only  did  he  lay  no  fancy  prices  upon 
his  books,  but  he  was  proud  of  selling  them  under  the  market 
value — which  he  understood  well  enough,  though  he  used  the 
knowledge  only  to  regulate  his  buying.  The  rate  at  which  he 
sold  was  determined  entirely  by  the  rate  at  which  he  bought. 
Do  not  think,  my  reader,  that  I  have  the  thinnest  ghost  of  a 
political  economy  theory  under  this :  I  am  simply  and  only 
describing  character.  Hence  he  sold  his  books  cheaper  than 
any  other  bookseller  in  London,  contenting  himself  with  a 
profit  proportioned  to  his  expenditure,  and  taking  his  pleas- 
ure in  the  rapidity  with  which  the  stream  of  books  flowed 
through  his  shop.  I  have  known  him  take  threepence  off  the 
price  he  had  first  affixed  to  a  book,  because  he  found  that  he 
had  not  advertised  it,  and  therefore  it  had  not  to  bear  its 
share  of  the  expense  of  the  catalogue. 

Mr.  Spelt  made  his  way  through  the  maze  of  books  into  the 
back  shop,  no  one  confronting  him,  and  there  found  Mr. 
Kitely  busy  over  his  next  catalogue,  which  he  was  making  out 
in  a  school-boy's  hand. 

"How  are  you,  Spelt  ?"  he  said,  in  an  alto  voice,  in  which 
rung  a  certain  healthy  vigor,  amounting  to  determination. 
"  Just  in  time,  I  believe.  My  little  woman  has  been  busy  in 
the  parlor  for  the  last  hour,  and  I  can  depend  upon  her  to  the 
minute.     Step  in." 


42  Guild  Court. 

"Don't  let  me  interrupt  you,"  suggested  Mr.  Spelt,  meekly, 
and  reverentially  even,  for  he  thought  Mr.  Kitely  must  be  a 
very  learned  man  indeed  to  write  so  much  about  books,  and 
had  at  home  a  collection  of  his  catalogues  complete  from  the 
year  when  he  first  occupied  the  nest  in  the  passage.  I  had 
forgot  to  say  that  Mr.  Kitely  was  Mr.  Spelt's  landlord,  and 
found  him  a  regular  tenant,  else  he  certainly  would  not  have 
invited  him  to  tea. 

" Don't  let  me  interrupt  you,"  said  Mr.  Spelt. 

"Not  at  all,"  returned  Mr.  Kitely.  "I'm  very  happy  to 
see  you,  Spelt.  You're  very  kind  to  my  Mattie,  and  it  pleases 
both  of  us  to  have  you  to  tea  in  our  humble  way. " 

His  humble  way  was  a  very  grand  way  indeed  to  poor  Spelt — 
and  Mr.  Kitely  knew  that.  Spelt  could  only  rub  his  nervous, 
delicate  hands  in  token  that  he  would  like  to  say  something  in 
reply  if  he  could  but  find  the  right  thing  to  say.  What  hands 
those  were,  instinct  with  life  and  expression  to  the  finger  nails  ! 
No  hands  like  them  for  fine-drawing.  He  would  make  the 
worst  rent  look  as  if  there  never  had  been  a  rough  contact 
with  the  nappy  surface. 

The  tailor  stepped  into  the  parlor,  which  opened  out  of  the 
back  shop  sideways,  and  found  himself  in  an  enchanted  region. 
A  fire — we  always  see  the  fire  first,  and  the  remark  will  mean 
more  to  some  people  than  to  others — a  most  respectable  fire 
burned  in  the  grate,  and  if  the  room  was  full  of  the  odor  of 
red  herrings,  possibly  objectionable  per  se,  where  was  the  harm 
when  they  were  going  to  partake  of  the  bloaters  ?  A  conse- 
quential cat  lay  on  the  hearth-rug.  A  great  black  oak  cabi- 
net, carved  to  repletion  of  surface,  for  which  a  pre-Kaphaelite 
painter  would  have  given  half  the  price  of  one  of  his  best 
pictures,  stood  at  the  end  of  the  room.  This  was  an  accident, 
for  Mr.  Kitely  could  not  appreciate  it.  But  neither  would  he 
sell  it  when  asked  to  do  so.  He  was  not  going  to  mix  trades, 
for  that  was  against  his  creed ;  the  fact  being  that  he  had 
tried  so  many  things  in  his  life  that  he  now  felt  quite  respect- 
able from  having  settled  to  one  for  the  rest  of  his  days.  But 
the  chief  peculiarity  of  the  room  was  the  number  of  birds  that 
hung  around  it  in  cages  of  all  sizes  and  shapes,  most  of  them 
covered  up  now  that  they  might  go  to  sleep. 

After  Mattie  had  bestowed  her  approbation  upon  Mr.  Spelt 
for  coming  exactly  to  the  hour,  she  took  the  brown  tea-pot 
from  the  hob,  the  muffin  from  before  the  fire,  and  three 
herrings  from  the  top  of  it,  and  put  them  all  one  after  another 
upon  the  table.     Then  she  would  have  placed  chairs  for  them 


More  about  Guild  Court.  43 

all,  but  was  prevented  by  the  gallantry  of  Mr.  Spelt,  and  only 
succeeded  in  carrying  to  the  head  of  the  table  her  own  high 
chair,  on  which  she  climbed  up,  and  sat  enthroned  to  pour  out 
the  tea.  It  was  a  noteworthy  triad.  On  opjDosite  sides  of  the 
table  sat  the  meek  tailor  and  the  hawk-expressioned  bookseller. 
The  latter  had  a  broad  forehead  and  large,  clear,  light  eyes. 
His  nose — I  never  think  a  face  described  when  the  nose  is  for- 
gotten :  Chaucer  never  omits  it — rose  from  between  his  eyes 
as  if  intending  to  make  the  true  Eoman  arch,  but  having 
reached  the  keystone,  held  on  upon  the  same  high  level,  and 
did  not  descend,  but  ceased.  He  wore  no  beard,  and  bore  his 
face  in  front  of  him  like  a  banner.  A  strong  pediment  of 
chin  and  a  long,  thin-lipped  mouth  completed  an  expression 
of  truculent  good  nature.  Plenty  of  clear-voiced  speech,  a 
breezy  defiance  of  nonsense  in  every  tone,  bore  in  it  a  certain 
cold  but  fierce  friendliness,  which  would  show  no  mercy  to 
any  weakness  you  might  vaunt,  but  would  drag  none  to  the 
light  you  abstained  from  forcing  into  notice.  Opposite  to  him 
sat  the  thoughtful,  thin-visaged,  small  man,  with  his  hair  on 
end ;  and  between  them  the  staid,  old-maidenly  child,  with 
her  hair  in  bands  on  each  side  of  the  smooth  solemnity  of  her 
face,  the  conceit  of  her  gentle  nature  expressed  only  in  the 
turn-up  of  her  diminutive  nose.  The  bookseller  behaved  to 
her  as  if  she  had  been  a  grown  lady. 

"Now,  Miss  Kitely,"  he  said,  "we  shall  have  tea  of  the 
right  sort,  shan't  we  ?  " 

"I  hope  so,"  answered  Mattie,  demurely.  "Help  Mr.  Spelt 
to  a  herring,  father. " 

"That  I  will,  my  princess.  There,  Mr.  Spelt!  There's  a 
herring  with  a  roe  worth  millions.  To  think,  now,  that  every 
one  of  those  eggs  would  be  a  fish  like  that,  if  it  was  only  let 
alone  !" 

"It's  a  great  waste  of  eggs,  ain't  it,  father  ?"  said  Mattie. 

"  Mr.  Spelt  won't  say  so,  my  princess,"  returned  Mr.  Kitely, 
laughing.     "He  likes 'em." 

"  I  do  like  them,"  said  the  tailor. 

"Well,  I  dare  say  they're  good  for  him,  and  it  don't  hurt 
them  much,"  resumed  Mattie,  reflectively. 

"They'll  go  to  his  brains,  and  make  him  clever,"  said 
Kitely.  "And  you  wouldn't  call  that  a  waste,  would  you, 
Mattie  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  I  think  Mr.  Spelt's  clever  enough 
already.  He's  too  much  for  me  sometimes.  I  confess  I  can't 
always  follow  him." 


44  Guild  Court. 

The  father  burst  into  a  loud  roar  of  laughter,  and  laughed 
till  the  tears  were  running  down  his  face.  Spelt  would  haye 
joined  him  but  for  the  reverence  he  had  for  Mattie,  who  sat 
unmoved  on  her  throne  at  the  head  of  the  table,  looking  down 
with  calm  benignity  on  her  father's  passion,  as  if  laughter 
were  a  weakness  belonging  to  grown-up  men,  in  which  they 
were  to  be  condescendingly  indulged  by  princesses,  and  little 
girls  in  general. 

"  Well,  how's  the  world  behaving  to  you,  Spelt  ?  "  asked  the 
bookseller,  after  various  ineffectual  attempts  to  stop  his  laugh- 
ter by  the  wiping  of  his  eyes. 

"  The  world  has  never  behaved  ill  to  me,  thank  God,"  an- 
swered the  tailor. 

"  Now,  don't  you  trouble  yourself  to  say  that.  You've  got 
nobody  to  thank  but  yourself." 

"But  I  like  to  thank  God,"  said  Mr.  Spelt,  apologetically. 
"  I  forgot  that  you  wouldn't  like  it." 

"  Pshaw  !  pshaw  !  I  don't  mind  it  from  you,  for  I  believe 
you're  fool  enough  to  mean  what  you  say.  But,  tell  me  this, 
Spelt — did  you  thank  God  when  your  wife  died  ?  " 

"  I  tried  hard  not.  I'm  afraid  I  did,  though,"  answered 
Spelt,  and  sat  staring  like  one  who  has  confessed,  and  awaits 
his  penance. 

The  bookseller  burst  into  another  loud  laugh,  and  slapped 
his  hand  on  his  leg. 

"You  have  me  there,  I  grant,  Spelt." 

But  his  face  grew  sober  as  he  added,  in  a  lower  but  still  loud 
voice — 

"  I  was  thinking  of  my  wife,  not  of  yours.  Folk  say  she  was 
a  rum  un." 

"She  was  a  splendid  woman,"  said  the  tailor.  "She 
weighed  twice  as  .much  as  I  do,  and  her  fist — "  Here  he 
doubled  up  his  own  slender  hand,  laid  it  on  the  table,  and 
stared  at  it,  with  his  mouth  full  of  muffin.  Then,  with  a 
sigh,  he  added,  "  She  was  rather  too  much  for  me,  sometimes. 
She  was  a  splendid  woman,  though,  when  she  was  sober." 

"  And  what  was  she  when  she  was  drunk  ?  " 

This  grated  a  little  on  the  tailor's  feelings,  and  he  answered 
with  spirit — 

"A  match  for  you  or  any  other  man,  Mr.  Kitely." 

The  bookseller  said,  "Bravo,  Spelt !"  and  said  no  more. 

They  went  on  with  their  tea  for  some  moments  in  silence. 

"  Well,  princess  ! "  said  Mr.  Kitely  at  last,  giving  an  aim- 
less poke  to  the  conversation. 


More  about  Guild  Court  45 

"  Well,  father,"  returned  Mattie. 

Whereupon  her  father  turned  to  Spelt  and  said,  as  if  resum- 
ing what  had  passed  before — 

"  Now  tell  me  honestly,  Spelt,  do  you  believe  there  is  a 
God?" 

"I  don't  doubt  it." 

"And  I  do.  Will  you  tell  me  that,  if  there  was  a  God,  he 
would  have  a  fool  like  that  in  the  church  over  the  way  there, 
to  do  nothing  but  read  the  service,  and  a  sermon  he  bought 
for  eighteenpence,  and — " 

"  From  you  ?"  asked  Spelt,  with  an  access  of  interest. 

"  No,  no.  I  was  too  near  the  church  for  that.  But  he 
bought  it  of  Spelman,  in  Holywell  Street.  Well,  what  was  I 
saying  ?  " 

"You  was  telling  us  what  Mr.  Potter  did  for  his  money." 

"Yes,  yes.  I  don't  know  anything  else  he  does  but 
stroke  his  Piccadilly  weepers,  and  draw  his  salary.  Only  I 
suppose  they  have  some  grand  name  for  salary  nowadays,  out 
of  the  Latin  Grammar  or  the  Roman  Antiquities,  or  some  such, 
to  make  it  respectable.  Don't  tell  me  there's  a  God,  when  he 
puts  a  man  like  that  in  the  pulpit.     To  hear  him  haw-haw  ! " 

The  bookseller's  logic  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  queer.  But 
Spelt  was  no  logician.  He  was  something  better,  though  in  a 
feeble  way.  He  could  jump  over  the  dry-stone  fences  and  the 
cross-ditches  of  the  logician.  He  was  not  one  of  those  who 
stop  to  answer  arguments  against  going  home,  instead  of  mak- 
ing haste  to  kiss  their  wives  and  children. 

"I  have  read  somewhere — in  a  book  I  dare  say  you  mayn't 
have  in  your  collection,  Mr.  Kitely — they  call  it  the  New  Tes- 
tament—  " 

There  was  not  an  atom  of  conscious  humor  in  the  tailor  as 
he  said  this.  He  really  thought  Mr.  Kitely  might  have  con- 
scientious scruples  as  to  favoring  the  sale  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment.    Kitely  smiled,  but  said  nothing. 

"I've  read" — the  tailor  went  on  — "that  God  winked  at 
some  people's  ignorance.  I  dare  say  he  may  wink  at  Mr. 
Potter's." 

"  Anyhow,  I  wouldn't  like  to  be  Mr.  Potter,"  said  the  book- 
seller. 

"No,  nor  I,"  returned  Spelt.  "But  just  as  I  let  that  poor 
creature,  Dolman,  cobble  away  in  my  ground-floor — though  he 
has  never  paid  me  more  than  half  his  rent  since  ever  he 
took  it—" 

"  Is  that  the  way  of  it  ?    Whew  ! "  said  Mr.  Kitely. 


46  Guild  Court. 

"  About  and  about  it,"  answered  the  tailor.  "  But  that's 
not  the  point." 

"  What  a  fool  you  are  then,  Spelt,  to — " 

"  Mr.  Kitely,"  interposed  the  tailor  with  dignity,  "  do  I  pay 
your  rent  ?  " 

"You've  got  my  receipts,  I  believe,"  answered  the  book- 
seller, offended  in  his  turn. 

"  Then  I  may  make  a  fool  of  myself,  if  I  please,"  returned 
Spelt,  with  a  smile  which  took  all  offense  out  of  the  remark. 
"  I  only  wanted  to  say  that  perhaps  God  lets  Mr.  Potter  hold 
the  living  of  St.  Jacob's  in  something  of  the  same  way  that  I 
let  poor  Dolman  cobble  in  my  ground-floor.  No  offense,  I 
hope." 

"None  whatever.  You're  a  good-natured,  honest  fellow, 
Spelt ;  and  don't  distress  yourself,  you  know,  for  a  week  or  so. 
Have  half  a  herring  more  ?     I  fear  this  is  a  soft  roe." 

"  No  more,  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Kitely.  But  all  the  clergy 
ain't  like  Mr.  Potter.  Perhaps  he  talks  such  nonsense  because 
there's  nobody  there  to  hear  it." 

"  There's  plenty  not  there  to  do  something  for  for  his 
money,"  said  Kitely. 

"  That's  true,"  returned  the  tailor.  "  But  seeing  I  don't  go 
to  church  myself,  I  don't  see  I've  any  right  to  complain.  Do 
you  go  to  church,  Mr.  Kitely  ?  " 

"I  should  think  not,"  answered  the  bookseller.  "But 
there's  some  one  in  the  shop." 

So  saying,  he  started  up  and  disappeared.  Presently  voices 
were  heard,  if  not  in  dispute,  yet  in  difference. 

"  You  won't  oblige  me  so  far  as  that,  Mr.  Kitely?" 

"No,  I  won't.  I  never  pledge  myself.  I've  been  too  often 
taken  in.  No  offense.  A  man  goes  away  and  forgets.  Send 
or  bring  the  money,  and  the  book  is  yours  ;  or  come  to-morrow. 
I  dare  say  it  won't  be  gone.  But  I  won't  promise  to  keep  it. 
There  ! " 

"  Very  well,  I  won't  trouble  you  again  in  a  hurry." 

"That  is  as  you  please,  sir,"  said  the  bookseller,  and  no 
reply  followed. 

"That's  Mr.  Worboise,"  said  Mattie,  "I  wish  father 
wouldn't  be  so  hard  upon  him." 

"  I  don't  like  that  young  man,"  said  Kitely,  reentering. 
"My  opinion  is  that  he's  a  humbug." 

"Miss  Burton  does  not  think  so,"  said  Mattie,  quietly. 

"E  h,  what,  princess  ?  "  said  her  father.  "  Eh  !  ah  !  well ! 
well  ! " 


Tlie  Morning  of  Christmas  Day.  47 

"You  don't  give  credit,  Mr.  Kitely?"  said  the  tailor. 

"No,  not  to  my  own  father.  I  don't  know,  though,  if  I 
had  the  old  boy  back  again,  now  he's  dead.  I  didn't  behave 
over  well  to  him,  I'm  afraid.  I  wonder  if  he's  in  the  moon, 
or  where  he  is,  Mr.  Spelt,  eh  ?  I  should  like  to  believe  in  God 
now,  if  it  were  only  for  the  chance  of  saying  to  my  father, 
'  I'm  sorry  I  said  so-and-so  to  you,  old  man.'  Do  you  think 
he'll  have  got  over  it  by  this  time,  Spelt  ?  You  know  all  about 
those  things.  But  I  won't  have  a  book  engaged  and  left  and 
not  paid  for.  I'd  rather  give  credit  and  lose  it,  and  have  done 
with  it.  If  young  Worboise  wants  the  book  he  may  come  for 
it  to-morrow." 

"  He  always  pays  me — and  pleasantly,"  said  Spelt. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mattie. 

"I  don't  doubt  it,"  said  her  father;  "but  I  like  things 
neat  and  clean.  And  I  don't  like  him.  He  thinks  a  deal  of 
himself." 

"  Surely  he's  neat  and  clean  enough,"  said  Spelt. 

"  Now,  you  don't  know  what  I  mean.  A  man  ought  always 
to  know  what  another  man  means  before  he  makes  his  remarks. 
I  mean,  I  like  a  book  to  go  out  of  my  sight,  and  the  price  of 
it  to  go  into  my  pocket,  right  slick  off.  But  here's  Dolman 
come  to  fetch  you,  Spelt,"  said  the  bookseller,  as  the  cobbler 
made  his  appearance  at  the  half -open  door  of  the  parlor. 

"No,  I  ain't,"  said  Dolman.  "I  only  come  to  let  the 
guv'nor  know  as  I'm  a  going  home." 

"  Where's  that  ?  "  asked  Kitely. 

"  Leastways,  I  mean  going  home  with  a  pair  o'  boots," 
answered  Dolman,  evasively,  wiping  his  nose  with  the  back  of 
his  hand. 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  bookseller. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  MORNING   OF   CHRISTMAS  DAT. 

It  is  but  justice  to  Thomas  Worboise  to  mention  that  he 
made  no  opportunities  of  going  to  his  "  governor's  "  house 
after  this.  But  the  relations  of  the  families  rendered  it  im- 
possible for  him  to  avoid  seeing  Mary  Boxall  sometimes.     Nor 


4:8  Guild  Court. 

did  he  make  any  great  effort  to  eyade  such  meetings  :  and  it 
must  be  confessed  that  it  was  not  without  a  glow  of  inward 
satisfaction  that  he  saw  her  confusion  and  the  rosy  tinge  that 
spread  over  her  face  and  deepened  the  color  of  her  eyes  when 
they  thus  happened  to  meet.  For  Mary  was  a  soft-hearted 
and  too  impressible  girl.  ".I  never  said  anything  to  her/' 
were  the  words  with  which  he  would  now  and  then  apply  an 
unction  to  his  soul,  compounded  of  self-justification  and  self- 
flattery.  But  he  could  not  keep  an  outward  appearance  of 
coolness  correspondent  to  the  real  coldness  of  his  selfish  heart, 
and  the  confusion  which  was  only  a  dim  reflection  of  her  own 
was  sufficient  to  make  poor  Mary  suppose  that  feelings  similar 
to  her  own.  were  at  work  in  the  mind  of  the  handsome  youth. 
Why  he  did  not  say  anything  to  her  had  not  yet  begun  to 
trouble  her,  and  her  love  was  as  yet  satisfied  with  the  ethereal 
luxuries  of  dreaming  and  castle-building. 

It  had  been  arranged  between  Amy  Worboise  and  the  Boxall 
girls,  that  if  Christmas  Day  were  fine,  they  would  persuade 
their  fathers  to  go  with  them  to  Hampstead  Heath  in  the 
morning.  How  much  of  this  arrangement  was  owing  to  sly 
suggestion  on  the  part  of  Mary  in  the  hope  of  seeing  Tom,  I 
do  not  know.  I  believe  Jane  contrived  that  Charles  Wither 
should  have  a  hint  of  the  possibility.  It  is  enough  that  the 
plan  was  accepted  by  the  parents,  and  that  the  two  families, 
with  the  exception  of  Mrs.  Boxall,  who  could  not  commit  the 
care  of  the  Christinas  dinner  to  the  servants,  and  the  invalid 
Mrs.  Worboise,  who,  iudeed,  would  always  have  preferred  the 
chance  of  a  visit  from  Mr.  Simon  to  the  certainty  of  sunshine 
and  extended  prospect,  found  themselves,  after  morning  ser- 
vice, on  the  platform  of  the  Highbury  railway  station,  whence 
they  soon  reached  Hampstead. 

The  walk  from  the  station,  up  the  hill  to  the  top  of  the 
heath,  was  delightful.  It  was  a  clear  day,  the  sun  shining 
overhead,  and  the  ground  sparkling  with  frost  under  their 
feet.  The  keen,  healthy  air  Drought  color  to  the  cheeks  and 
light  to  the  eyes  of  all  the  party,  possibly  with  the  sole  excep- 
tion of  Mr.  Worboise,  who,  able  to  walk  uncovered  in  the 
keenest  weather,  was  equally  impervious  to  all  the  gentler  in- 
fluences of  Nature .  He  could  not  be  said  to  be  a  disbeliever 
in  Nature,  for  he  had  not  the  smallest  idea  that  she  had  any 
existence  beyond  an  allegorical  one.  What  he  did  believe  in 
was  the  law,  meaning  by  that  neither  the  Mosaic  nor  the 
Christian,  neither  the  law  of  love  nor  the  law  of  right,  but 
the  law  of  England  as  practiced  in  her  courts  of  justice. 


The  Morning  of  Christmas  Day.  49 

Therefore  he  was  not  a  very  interesting  person  to  spend  a 
Christmas  morning  with,  and  he  and  Mr.  Boxall,  who  was 
equally  a  helieyer  in  commerce,  were  left  to  entertain  each 
other. 

Mary  Boxall  was  especially  merry  ;  Amy  Worboise  roguish 
as  usual ;  Jane  Boxall  rather  silent,  but  still  bright-eyed,  for 
who  could  tell  whom  she  might  meet  upon  the  heath  ?  And 
with  three  such  girls  Tom  could  not  be  other  than  gay,  if  not 
brilliant.  True,  Lucy  was  alone  with  her  old  grandmother  in 
dingy  Guild  Court ;  but  if  she  loved  him,  was  not  that  enough 
to  make  her  or  any  other  woman  happy  ?  And  he  could  not 
help  it,  besides.  And  why  should  he  not  improve  the  shining 
hour  because  Lucy  had  no  flowers  to  gather  honey  from  ?  Be- 
sides, was  he  not  going  to  meet  her  the  very  next  day,  after 
much  contrivance  for  concealment  ?  So  he  was  resolved  to  be 
merry  and  "freuen  sich  des  Lebens." 

They  reached  the  flag-staff.  The  sun  was  getting  low,  and 
clouds  were  gathering  behind  him.  Harrow-on-the-Hill  was 
invisible,  but  the  reservoir  gleamed  coldly  far  across  the  heath. 
A  wind  was  blowing  from  the  northwest ;  all  London  lay  south 
and  east  in  clearness  wonderful,  for  two  or  three  minutes. 
Then  a  vapor  slowly  melted  away  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's,  and, 
like  a  spirit  of  sorrow,  gathered  and  gathered  till  that  which 
was  full  of  life  to  those  who  were  in  it,  was  but  a  gray  cloud 
to  those  that  looked  on  from  the  distant  hight.  Already  the 
young  people  felt  their  spirits  affected,  and  as  if  by  a  common 
impulse,  set  off  to  walk  briskly  to  the  pines  above  the  "  Span- 
iards." They  had  not  gone  far,  before  they  met  Charles 
Wither  sauntering  carelessly  along — at  least  he  seemed  much 
surprised  to  see  them.  He  turned  and  walked  between  Jane 
and  Amy,  and  Mary  and  Tom  were  compelled  to  drop  behind, 
so  as  not  to  extend  their  line  unreasonably  and  occupy  the 
whole  path.  Quite  unintentionally  on  Tom's  part,  the  distance 
between  the  two  divisions  increased,  and  when  he  and  Mary 
reached  the  pines,  the  rest  of  the  party  had  vanished.  They 
had  in  fact  gone  down  into  the  Vale  of  Health,  to  be  out  of  the 
wind,  and  return  by  the  hollow,  at  the  suggestion  of  Charles 
"Wither,  who  wished  thus  to  avoid  the  chance  of  being  seen  by 
Mr.  Boxall.  When  he  had  taken  his  leave  of  them,  just  as 
they  came  in  sight  of  the  flag-staff,  where  Mr.  Worboise  and 
Mr.  Boxall  had  appointed  to  meet  them  on  their  return  from  the 
pines,  Jane  begged  Amy  to  say  nothing  about  having  met  him. 

"  Oh,"  said  Amy,  with  sudden  and  painful  illumination,  "  I 
am  so  sorry  to  have  been  in  the  way." 


50  Guild  Court 

"  On  the  contrary,  dear  Amy,  I  should  not  have  known 
what  to  say  to  papa,  except  you  had  been  with  me.  I  am  so 
much  obliged  to  you." 

Thus  there  was  clearly  trouble  in  store  for  Mr.  Boxall,  who 
had  never  yet  known  what  it  was  not  to  have  his  own  way — in 
matters  which  he  would  consider  of  importance  at  least. 

The  two  gentlemen  had  gone  into  Jack  Straw's  to  have  a 
glass  of  wine  together,  in  honor  of  Christmas  Day  ;  and  while 
they  were  seated  together  before  a  good  fire,  it  seemed  to  Mr. 
Boxall  a  suitable  opportunity  for  entering  on  a  matter  of  business. 

"  What  will  you  say  to  me,  Worboise,  when  I  tell  you  that 
I  have  never  yet  made  a  will  ?  " 

"I  needn't  tell  you  what  I  think,  Boxall.  You  know  well 
enough.  Very  foolish  of  you.  Very  imprudent,  indeed.  And 
I  confess  I  should  not  have  expected  it  of  you,  although  I  had 
a  shrewd  suspicion  that  such  was  the  case." 

"  How  came  you  to  suspect  it  ?  " 

"  To  tell  the  truth;  I  could  not  help  thinking  that  as  our 
friendship  was  not  of  yesterday,  you  would  hardly  have  asked 
any  one  else  to  draw  up  your  will  but  your  old  friend.  So  you 
see  it  was  by  no  mysterious  exercise  of  intelligence  that  I  came 
to  the  conclusion  that,  not  being  an  unkind  or  suspicious  man, 
you  must  be  a  dilatory,  and,  excuse  me,  in  this  sole  point,  a 
foolish  man." 

"  I  grant  the  worst  you  can  say,  but  you  shall  say  it  only  till 
to-morrow — that  is,  if  you  will  draw  up  the  will,  and  have  it 
ready  for  me  to  sign  at  any  hour  you  may  be  at  leisure  for  a 
call  from  me." 

"I  can't  undertake  it  by  to-morrow  ;  but  it  shall  be  ready 
by  the  next  day  at  twelve  o'clock," 

"  That  will  do  perfectly.  I  must  remain  '  a  foolish  man ' 
for  twenty-four  hours  longer — that  is  all." 

"  You  won't  be  much  the  worse  for  that,  except  you  have 
an  attack  of  apoplexy  to  fix  you  there.  But,  joking  apart, 
give  me  my  instructions.  May  I  ask  how  much  you  have  to 
leave  ?" 

"  Oh  ;  somewhere,  off  and  on,  about  thirty  thousand.  It 
isn't  much,  but  I  hope  to  double  it  in  the  course  of  a  few 
years,  if  things  go  on  as  they  are  doing." 

Mr.  Worboise  had  not  known  so  much  about  his  friend's 
affairs  as  he  had  pretended  to  his  son.  When  he  heard  the 
amount,  he  uttered  a  slight  •"  Whew  ! "  But  whether  it  meant 
that  the  sum  fell  below  or  exceeded  his  expectations,  he  gave 
Mr.  Boxall  no  time  to  inquire. 


TJie  Morning  of  Christmas  Day.  51 

"  And  how  do  you  want  the  sum  divided  ?  "  he  asked. 

"I  don't  want  it  divided  at  all.  There's  no  occasion  what- 
ever to  mention  the  sum.  The  books  will  show  my  property. 
I  want  my  wife,  in  the  case  of  her  surviving  me,  to  have  the 
whole  of  it." 

"  And  failing  her  ?" 

"My  daughters,  of  course — equally  divided.  If  my  wife 
lives,  there  is  no  occasion  to  mention  them.  I  want  them  to 
be  dependent  upon  her  as  long  as  she  lives,  and  so  hold  the 
family  together  as  long  as  possible.  She  knows  my  wishes 
about  them  in  everything.     I  have  no  secrets  from  her." 

"I  have  only  to  carry  out  instructions.  I  have  no  right  to 
offer  any  suggestions." 

"  That  means  that  you  would  suggest  something.  Speak 
out,  man." 

"  Suppose  your  daughters  wished  to  marry  ?  " 

"I  leave  all  that  to  their  mother,  as  I  said.  They  must  be 
their  own  mistresses  some  day." 

"  Well,  call  on  me  the  day  after  to-morrow,  and  I  shall  have 
the  draught  at  least  ready." 

When  the  two  girls  reached  the  flag-staff,  their  parents 
were  not  there.  Jane  was  glad  of  this,  for  it  precluded  ques- 
tioning as  to  the  point  whence  they  had  arrived.  As  they 
stood  waiting,  large  snow-flakes  began  to  fall,  and  the  wind 
was  rising.  But  they  had  not  to  wait  long  before  the  gentle- 
men made  their  appearance,  busily  conversing,  so  busily,  in- 
deed, that  when  they  had  joined  the  girls,  they  walked  away 
toward  the  railway  station  without  concerning  themselves  to 
ask  what  had  become  of  Mary  and  Thomas. 

When  they  reached  the  railway  station,  Mr.  Boxall  became 
suddenly  aware  that  two  of  their  party  were  missing. 

"  Why,  Jane,  where's  Mary  ?  And  where's  Tom  ?  Where 
did  you  leave  them  ?  " 

"  Somewhere  about  the  pines.  I  thought  they  would  have 
been  back  long  ago." 

The  two  fathers  looked  at  each  other,  and  each  seeing  that 
the  other  looked  knowing,  then  first  consented,  as  he  thought, 
to  look  knowing  himself, 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Worboise,  "  they're  old  enough  to  take 
care  of  themselves,  I  suppose.  I  vote  we  don't  wait  for 
them." 

"  Serve  them  right,"  said  Mr.  Boxall. 

' '  Oh,  don't,  papa,"  interposed  Jane. 

"  Well,  Jane,  will  you  stop  for  them  ?  "  said  her  father. 


52  Guild  Court. 

But  a  sudden  light  that  flashed  into  Jane's  eyes  made  him 
change  his  tone.  He  did  not  know  why,  but  the  idea  of 
Charles  Wither  rose  in  his  mind,  and  he  made  haste  to  prevent 
Jane  from  taking  advantage  of  the  proposal. 

"Come  along,"  he  said.  "Let  them  take  care  of  them- 
selves.    Come  along." 

The  suspicion  had  crossed  him  more  than  once,  that  Mr. 
Wither  and  Jane  possibly  contrived  to  meet  without  his 
knowledge,  and  the  thought  made  him  writhe  with  jealousy ; 
for  it  lay  in  his  nature  to  be  jealous  of  everyone  of  whom  his 
wife  or  his  daughters  spoke  well — that  is,  until  he  began  to 
like  him  himself,  when  the  jealousy,  or  what  was  akin  to  it, 
vanished.  But  it  was  not  jealousy  alone  that  distressed  him, 
but  the  anxiety  of  real  love  as  well. 

By  the  time  they  reached  Camden  Road  station,  the  ground 
was  covered  with  snow. 

When  Tom  and  Mary  arrived  at  the  pines,  I  have  said  they 
found  that  the  rest  of  their  party  had  gone. 

"  Oh,  never  mind,"  said  Mary,  merrily  ;  "  let  us  run  down 
into  the  hollow,  and  wait  till  they  come  back.  I  dare  say 
they  are  not  far  oft     They  will  never  go  without  us." 

Partly  from  false  gallantry,  partly  from  inclination,  Thomas 
agreed.  They  descended  the  bank  of  sand  in  a  quite  opposite 
direction  from  that  taken  by  Jane  and  her  companions,  and 
wandered  along  down  the  heath.  By  this  time  the  sky  was 
all  gray  and  white.  Long  masses  of  vapor  were  driving  over- 
head with  jagged  upper  edges.  They  looked  like  lines  of 
fierce  warriors  stooping  in  their  eager  rush  to  the  battle.  But 
down  in  the  hollows  of  the  heath  all  was  still,  and  they  wan- 
dered on  for  some  time  without  paying  any  heed  to  the  signs 
of  the  coming  storm.  Does  my  reader  ask  what  they  talked 
about  ?  Nothing  worthy  of  record,  I  answer  ;  although  every 
word  that  Thomas  uttered  seemed  to  Mary  worth  looking  into 
for  some  occult  application  of  the  sort  she  would  gladly  have 
heard  more  openly  expressed.  At  length,  something  cold  fell 
upon  her  face,  and  Thomas  glancing  that  moment  at  her 
countenance,  saw  it  lying  there,  and  took  it  for  a  tear.  She 
looked  up  :  the  sky  was  one  mass  of  heavy  vapor,  and  a  multi- 
tude of  great  downy  snow-flakes  was  settling  slowly  on  the 
earth.  In  a  moment  they  were  clasped  hand  in  hand.  The 
pleasure  of  the  snow,  the  excitement  of  being  shut  out  from 
the  visible,  or  rather  the  seeing  world,  wrapped  in  the  skirts 
of  a  storm  with  a  pretty  girl  for  his  sole  companion,  so  wrought 
upon  Thomas,  who  loved  to  be  moved  and  hated  to  will,  that 


The  Morning  of  Christmas  Day.  53 

he  forgot  Lucy,  and  stood  in  delight  gazing  certainly  at  the 
falling  snow,  and  not  at  Mary  Boxall,  but  holding  her  hand 
tight  in  his  own..  She  crept  closer  to  him,  for  a  little  gentle 
fear  added  to  her  pleasure,  and  in  a  moment  more  his  arm  was 
about  her — to  protect  her,  I  dare  say,  he  said  to  himself. 

Now,  be  it  understood  that  Thomas  was  too  much  in  love 
with  himself  to  be  capable  of  loving  any  woman  under  the  sun 
after  a  noble  and  true  fashion.  He  did  not  love-  Lucy  a  great 
deal  better  than  he  loved  Mary.  Only  Mary  was  an  ordinary 
pretty  blonde,  and  Lucy  was  dark,  with  great  black  eyes,  and 
far  more  distinguished  in  appearance  than  Mary.  Besides,  she 
was  poor,  and  that  added  greatly  to  the  romance  of  the  thing ; 
for  it  made  it  quite  noble  in  him  to  love  her,  and  must  make 
her  look  up  to  him  with  such  deserved  admiration,  that — 
without  reckoning  the  fact  that  the  one  was  offered  him,  and 
the  other  only  not  forbidden  because  there  was  as  yet  no 
suspicion  of  his  visits  in  Guild  Court; — there  was  positively  no 
room  to  hesitate  in  choice  between  them.  Still  the  preference 
was  not  strong  enough  to  keep  his  heart  from  beating  fast 
when  he  found  the  snow-storm  had  closed  him  in  with  Mary. 
He  had  sense  enough,  however,  to  turn  at  once  in  order  to 
lead  her  back  toward  the  road.  But  this  was  already  a  matter 
of  difficulty,  for  there  was  no  path  where  the  storm  found 
them,  and  with  the  gathering  darkness  the  snow  already  hid 
the  high  road  across  the  heath  ;  so  that  the  first  question  was 
in  what  direction  to  go  to  find  it.  They  kept  moving,  how- 
ever, Mary  leaning  a  good  deal  on  Tom's  arm,  and  getting 
more  and  more  frightened  as  no  path  came  in  view.  Even 
Tom  began  to  be  anxious  about  what  was  to  come  of  it,  and 
although  he  did  his  best  to  comfort  Mary,  he  soon  found  that, 
before  the  least  suspicion  of  actual  danger,  the  whole  romance 
had  vanished.  And  now  the  snow  not  only  fell  rapidly,  but 
the  wind  blew  it  sharply  in  their  faces,  and  blinded  them  yet 
more  than  merely  with  its  darkness — not  that  this  mattered 
much  as  to  the  finding  the  way,  for  that  was  all  hap-hazard 
long  ago. 

After  wandering,  probably  in  a  circuitous  fashion,  for  more 
than  an  hour,  Mary  burst  out  crying,  and  said  she  could  not 
walk  a  step  farther.  She  would  have  thrown  herself  down  had 
not  Tom  prevented  her.  With  the  kindest  encouragement; — 
though  he  was  really  down-hearted  himself — he  persuaded  her 
to  climb  a  little  hight  near  them,  which  with  great  difficulty 
she  managed  to  do.  From  the  top  they  saw  a  light,  and 
descending  the  opposite  side  of  the  hill,  found  themselves  in  a 


54  Guild  Court. 

road,  where  an  empty  cab  stood  by  the  door  of  a  public-house. 
After  trying  to  persuade  Mary  to  have  some  refreshment,  to 
which  she  refused  to  listen,  insisting  on  being  taken  to  hei 
mother,  Thomas  succeeded  in  getting  the  cabman  to  drive 
them  to  the  station.  In  the  railway  carriage,  Mary  lay  like 
one  dead,  and  although  he  took  off  both  his  coats  to  wrap 
about  her,  she  seemed  quite  unconscious  of  the  attention.  It 
was  with  great  difficulty  that  she  reached  her  home ;  for  there 
was  no  cab  at  the  hackney  station,  and  the  streets  were  by  this 
time  nearly  a  foot  deep  in  snow. 

Thomas  was  not  sorry  to  give  her  up  to  her  mother.  She 
immediately  began  to  scold  him.  Then  Mary  spoke  for  the 
first  time,  saying,  with  great  effort : 

"Don't,  mother.  If  it  had  not  been  for  Thomas,  1  should 
have  been  dead  long  ago.  He  could  not  help  it.  Good-night, 
Tom." 

And  she  feebly  held  up  her  face  to  kiss  him.  Tom  stooped 
to  meet  it,  and  went  away  feeling  tolerably  miserable.  He 
was  wet  and  cold.  The  momentary  fancy  for  Mary  was  quite 
gone  out  of  him,  and  he  could  not  help  seeing  that  now  he  had 
kissed  her  before  her  mother  he  had  got  himself  into  a  scrape. 

Before  morning  Mary  was  in  a  raging  fever. 

That  night  Charles  Wither  spent  at  a  billiard-table  in  Lon- 
don, playing,  not  high  but  long,  sipping  brandy  and  water  all 
the  time,  and  thinking  what  a  splendid  girl  Jane  Boxall  was. 
But  in  the  morning  he  looked  all  right. 


CHAPTEE  VII. 

POPPIE. 

Thomas  woke  the  next  morning  with  a  well-deserved  sense 
of  something  troubling  him.  This  too  was  a  holiday,  but  he 
did  not  feel  in  a  holiday  mood.  It  was  not  from  any  fear  that 
Mary  might  be  the  worse  for  her  exposure,  neither  was  it  from 
regret  for  his  conduct  toward  her.  What  made  him  uncom- 
fortable was  the  feeling  rather  than  thought  that  now  Mrs. 
Boxall,  Mary's  mother,  had  a  window  that  overlooked  his 
premises,  a  window  over  which  he  had  no  legal  hold,  but 
which,  on  the  contrary,  gave  her  a  ^iold  over  him.     It  was  a 


Poppie.  55 

window,  also,  of  which  she  was  not  likely,  as  he  thought,  to 
neglect  the  advantage.  Nor  did  it  console  him  to  imagine 
what  Lucy  would  think,  or — which  was  of  more  weight  with 
Thomas — say  or  do,  if  she  should  happen  to  hear  of  the  affair 
of  yesterday.  This,  however,  was  very  unlikely  to  happen  ;  for 
she  had  not  one  friend  in  common  with  her  cousins,  except 
just  her  lover.  To-day  being  likewise  a  holiday,  he  had  ar- 
ranged to  meet  her  at  the  Marble  Arch,  and  take  her  to  that 
frightful  source  of  amusement,  Madame  Tussaud's.  Her 
morning  engagement  led  her  to  that  neighborhood,  and  it  was 
a  safe  place  to  meet  in — far  from  Highbury,  Hackney,  and 
Bagot  Street. 

The  snow  was  very  deep.  Mrs.  Boxall  tried  to  persuade 
Lucy  not  to  go.  But  where  birds  can  pass,  lovers  can  pass, 
and  she  was  just  finishing  her  lesson  to  resplendent  little 
Miriam  as  Thomas  got  out  of  an  omnibus  at  Park  Street,  that 
he  might  saunter  up  on  foot  to  the  Marble  Arch. 

The  vision  of  Hyde  Park  was  such  as  rarely  meets  the  eye 
of  a  Londoner.  It  was  almost  grotesquely  beautiful.  Even 
while  waiting  for  a  lovely  girl,  Thomas  could  not  help  taking 
notice  of  the  trees.  Every  bough,  branch,  twig,  and  shoot 
supported  a  ghost  of  itself,  or  rather  a  white  shadow  of  itself 
upon  the  opposite  side  from  where  the  black  shadow  fell.  The 
whole  tree  looked  like  a  huge  growth  of  that  kind  of  coral 
they  call  brain-coral,  and  the  whole  park  a  forest  of  such  co- 
ralline growths.  But  against  the  sky,  which  was  one  canopy 
of  unf alien  snow,  bright  with  the  sun  behind  it,  the  brilliant 
trees  looked  more  like  coral  still,  gray  namely,  and  dull. 

Thomas  had  not  sauntered  and  gazed  for  more  than  a  few 
minutes  before  he  saw  Lucy  coming  down  Great  Cumberland 
Street  toward  him.  Instead  of  crossing  the  street  to  meet  her, 
he  stood  and  watched  her  approach.  There  was  even  some 
excuse  for  his  coolness,  she  looked  so  picturesque  flitting  over 
the  spotless  white  in  her  violet  dress,  her  red  cloak,  her  grebe 
muff.  I  do  not  know  what  her  bonnet  was ;  for  if  a  bonnet 
be  suitable,  it  allows  the  face  to  show  as  it  ought,  and  who 
can  think  of.  a  bonnet  then  !  But  I  know  that  they  were  a 
pair  of  very  dainty  morocco  boots  that  made  little  holes  in  the 
snow  across  Oxford  Street  toward  the  Marble  Arch  where 
Thomas  stood,  filled,  I  fear,  with  more  pride  in  the  lovely  fig- 
ure that  was  coming  to  Mm  than  love  of  her. 

"  Have  I  kept  you  waiting  long,  Thomas  ?  "  said  Lucy,  with 
the  sweetest  of  smiles,  her  teeth  white  as  snow  in  the  summer 
flush  of  her  face. 


56  Guild  Court. 

"  Oh  !.  about  ten  minutes,"  said  Thomas.  It  wasn't  five. 
"  "What  a  cold  morning  it  is  ! " 

"  I  don't  feel  it  much,"  answered  Lucy.  "  I  came  away  the 
first  moment  I  could.     I  am  sorry  I  kept  you  waiting. " 

"  Don't  mention  it,  Lucy.  I  should  be  only  too  happy  to 
wait  for  you  as  long  every  morning,"  said  Thomas,  gallantly, 
not  tenderly. 

Lucy  did  not  relish  the  tone.  But  what  could  she  do  ?  A 
tone  is  one  of  the  most  difficult  things  to  fix  a  complaint 
upon.  Besides,  she  was  not  in  a  humor  to  complain  of  any 
thing  if  she  could  help  it.  And,  to  tell  the  truth,  she  was  a 
little  afraid  of  offending  Thomas,  for  she  looked  up  to  him  ten 
times  more  than  he  deserved. 

"  How  lovely  your  red  cloak  looked — quite  a  splendor — cross- 
ing the  snow  !  "  he  continued. 

And  Lucy  received  this  as  a  compliment  to  herself,  and 
smiled  again.  She  took  his  arm — for  lovers  will  do  that 
sometimes  after  it  is  quite  out  of  fashion.  But,  will  it  be  be- 
lieved ?  Thomas  did  not  altogether  like  her  doing  so,  just 
because  it  was  out  of  fashion. 

"  What  a  delightful  morning  it  is,"  she  said.  "  Oh  !  do 
look  at  the  bars  of  the  railing." 

"  Yes,  I  see.  The  snow  has  stuck  to  them.  But  how  can 
you  look  at  such  vulgar  things  as  iron  stanchions  when  you 
have  such  a  fairy  forest  as  that  before  you  ?  "  said  the  reader 
of  Byron,  who  was  not  seldom  crossed  by  a  feeling  of  dismay 
at  finding  Lucy,  as  he  thought,  decidedly  unpoetical.  He 
wanted  to  train  her  in  poetry,-  as,  with  shame  let  it  flow  from 
my  pen,  in  religion. 

"  But  just  look  here,"  insisted  Lucy,  drawing  him  closer  to 
the  fence.  "  You  are  short-sighted,  surely,  Thomas.  Just 
look  there." 

e '  Well,  I  see  nothing  but  snow  on  both  sides  of  the  paling- 
bars,"  returned  Thomas. 

"  JSTow  I  am  sure  you  are  short-sighted.  It  is  snow  on  the 
one  side,  but  not  on  the  other.     Look  at  the  lovely  crystals." 

On  the  eastern  quarter  of  each  upright  bar  the  snow  had 
accumulated  and  stuck  fast  to  the  depth  of  an  inch  :  the  wind 
had  been  easterly.  The  fall  had  ceased  some  hours  before 
morning,  and  a  strong  frost  had  set  in.  That  the  moisture  in 
the  air  should  have  settled  frozen  upon  the  iron  would  not 
have  been  surprising  ;  what  Lucy  wondered  at  was,  that  there 
should  be  a  growth,  half  an  inch  long,  of  slender  crystals,  like 
the  fungous    growth    commonly  called  mold,    only  closer, 


Popple.  57 

standing  out  from  the  bar  horizontally,  as  if  they  had  grown 
through  it,  out  of  the  soil  of  the  snow  exactly  opposite  to  it  on 
the  other  side.  On  the  one  side  was  a  beaten  mass  of  snow, 
on  the  other  a  fantastic  little  forest  of  ice. 

"I  do  not  care  about  such  microscopic  beauties,"  said 
Thomas,  a  little  annoyed  that  she  whom  ho  thought  unpoeti- 
cal  could  find  out  something  lovely  sooner  than  he  could  ;  for 
he  was  of  those  in  whom  a  phantasm  of  self-culture  is  one  of 
the  forms  taken  by  their  selfishness.  They  regard  this  culture 
in  relation  to  others  with  an  eye  to  superiority,  and  do  not 
desire  it  purely  for  its  own  sake.  "  Those  trees  are  much 
more  to  my  mind,  now." 

"Ah,  but  I  do  not  love  the  trees  less.  Come  into  the  park, 
and  then  we  can  see  them  from  all  sides." 

"  The  snow  is  too  deep.     There  is  no  path  there." 

"  I  don't  mind  it.     My  boots  are  very  thick." 

"  No,  no ;  come  along.  We  shall  get  to  Madame  Tus- 
saud's  before  there  are  many  people  there.  It  will  be  so  much 
nicer." 

"I  should  like  much  better  to  stay  here  awhile,"  said  Lucy, 
half  vexed  and  a  little  offended. 

But  Thomas  did  not  heed  her.  He  led  the  way  up  Oxford 
Street.  She  had  dropped  his  arm,  and  now  walked  by  his 
side. 

"  A  nice  lover  to  have  !  "  I  think  I  hear  some  of  my  girl 
readers  say.  But  he  was  not  so  bad  as  this  always,  or  even 
gentle-tempered  Lucy  would  have  quarreled  with  him,  if  it 
had  been  only  for  the  sake  of  getting  rid  of  him.  The  weight 
of  yesterday  was  upon  him.  And  while  they  were  walking  up 
the  street,  as  handsome  and  fresh  a  couple  as  you  would  find 
in  all  London,  Mary  was  lying  in  her  bed  talking  wildly  about 
Thomas. 

Alas  for  the  loving  thoughts  of  youth  and  maidens,  that  go 
out  like  the  dove  from  the  ark,  and  find  no  room  on  the  face 
of  the  desired  world  to  fold  their  wings  and  alight !  Olive- 
leaves  they  will  gather  in  plenty,  even  when  they  are  destined 
never  to  build  a  nest  in  the  branches  of  the  olive  tree.  Let 
such  be  strong  notwithstanding,  even  when  there  are  no  more 
olive-leaves  to  gather,  for  God  will  have  mercy  upon  his  youths 
and  maidens,  and  they  shall  grow  men  and  women.  Let  who 
can  understand  me. 

Having  thus  left  the  beauties  of  nature  behind  them  for  the 
horrible  mockery  of  art  at  Madame  Tussaud's,  Thomas  became 
aware  from  Lucy's  silence  that  he  had  not  been  behaving  well 


58  Guild  Court. 

to  her.  He  therefore  set  about  being  more  agreeable,  and  be- 
fore they  reached  Baker  Street  she  had  his  arm  again,  and  they 
were  talking  and  laughing  gayly  enough.  Behind  them,  at 
some  distance,  trotted  a  small  apparition  "which  I  must  now 
describe, 

It  was  a  little  girl,  perhaps  ten  years  old,  looking  as  wild  as 
any  savage  in  Canadian  forest.  Her  face  was  pretty,  as  far  as 
could  be  judged  through  the  dirt  that  variegated  its  surface. 
Her  eyes  were  black  and  restless.  Her  dress  was  a  frock,  of 
what  stuff  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  determine,  scarcely 
reaching  below  her  knees,  and  rent  upward  into  an  irregular 
fringe  of  ribbons  that  frostily  fanned  her  little  legs  as  she  fol- 
lowed the  happy  couple,  in  a  pair  of  shoes  much  too  large  for 
her,  and  already  worn  into  such  holes  as  to  afford  more  refuge 
for  the  snow  than  for  her  feet.  Her  little  knees  were  very 
black,  and  oh  !  those  poor  legs,  caked  and  streaked  with 
dirt,  and  the  delicate  skin  of  them  thickened  and  cracked  with 
frost  and  east  winds  and  neglect !  They  could  carry  her 
through  tbe  snow  satisfactorily,  however — with  considerable 
suffering  to  themselves,  no  doubt.  But  Poppie  was  not  bound 
to  be  miserable  because  Poppie's  legs  were  anything  but  com- 
fortable ;  there  is  no  selfishness  in  not  being  sorry  for  one's 
own  legs.  Her  hair,  which  might  have  been  expected  to  be 
quite  black,  was  mingled  With  a  reddish  tinge  from  exposure 
to  the  hot  sun  of  the  preceding  summer.  It  hung  in  tangled 
locks  about  her,  without  protection  of  any  sort.  Hw  strange 
the  snow  must  have  looked  upon  it !  ISTo  doubt  she  had 
been  out  in  the  storm.  Her  face  peeped  out  from  among 
it  with  the  wild  innocence  of  a  gentle  and  shy  but 
brave  little  animal  of  the  forest.  Purposely  she  followed 
Lucy's  red  cloak.  But  this  was  not  the  first  time  she  had  fol- 
lowed her  ;  like  a  lost  pup,  she  would  go  after  this  one  and 
that  one — generally  a  lady — for  a  whole  day  from  place  to 
place,  obedient  to  some  hidden  drawing  of  the  heart.  Shehadi 
often  seen  Lucy  start  from  Guild  Court,  and  had  followed  her 
to  the  railway  ;  and,  at  length,  by  watching  first  one  station 
and  then  another,  had  found  out  where  she  went  every  morn- 
ing. Knowing  then  that  she  could  find  her  when  she  pleased, 
she  did  not  follow  her  more  than  twice  a  week  or  so,  sometimes 
not  once — just  as  the  appetite  woke  in  her  for  a  little  of  her 
society.  But  my  reader  must  see  more  of  her  before  he  or  she 
will  be  interested  enough  in  her  either  to  please  me  or  to  care 
to  hear  more  about  the  habits  of  this  little  wild  animal  of  the 
stone  forest  of  London.     She  had  never  seen  Lucy  with  a  gen- 


Poppie.  59 

tleman  before.  I  wonder  if  she  had  ever  in  her  little  life 
walked  side  by  side  with  anybody  herself  ;  she  was  always  trot- 
ting behind.  This  was  the  little  girl  whom  Miss  Matilda 
Kitely,  her  father's  princess,  called  Poppie,  and  patronized,  al- 
though she  was  at  least  two  years  older  than  herself,  as  near  as 
could  be  guessed.  Nor  had  she  any  other  name  ;  for  no  one 
knew  where  she  had  come  from,  or  who  were  her  parents,  and 
she  herself  cared  as  little  about  the  matter  as  anybody. 

The  lovers  were  some  distance  ahead  of  Poppie,  as  they  had 
been  all  the  way,  when  they  entered  the  passage  leading  to  the 
wax  works.  The  instant  she  lost  sight  of  them  so  suddenly, 
Poppie  started  in  pursuit,  lost  one  of  her  great  shoes,  and,  in- 
stead of  turning  to  pick  it  up,  kicked  the  other  after  it— no  great 
loss — and  scampered  at  full  barefooted  speed  over  the  snow, 
which  was  here  well  trodden.  They  could  hardly  have  more  than 
disappeared  at  the  further  end  when  she  arrived  at  the  entrance. 

Poppie  never  thought  about  might  or  might  not,  but  only 
about  could  or  could  not.  So  the  way  being  open,  and  she 
happening  to  have  no  mind  that  morning  to  part  with  her  com- 
pany before  she  was  compelled,  she  darted  in  to  see  whether 
she  could  not  get  another  peep  of  the  couple.  Not  only  was  the 
red  cloak  a  fountain  of  warmth  to  Poppie's  imagination,  but 
the  two  seemed  so  happy  together  that  she  felt  in  most  desira- 
ble society. 

Thomas  was  in  the  act  of  paying  for  admission  at  the  turn- 
stile, when  she  caught  sight  of  them  again.  The  same  mo- 
ment that  he  admitted  them,  the  man  turned  away  from  his 
post.  In  an  instant  Poppie  had  crept  through  underneath, 
dodged  the  man,  and  followed  them,  taking  care,  however, 
not  to  let  them  see  her,  for  she  had  not  the  smallest  desire 
to  come  to  speech  with  them. 

The  gorgeousness  about  her  did  not  produce  much  effect 
upon  Poppie's  imagination.  What  it  might  have  produced  was 
counteracted  by  a  strange  fancy  that  rose  at  once  under  the 
matted  covering  of  that  sunburnt  hair.  She  had  seen  more 
than  one  dead  man  carried  home  upon  a  stretcher.  She  had 
seen  the  miserable  funerals  of  the  poor,  and  the  desolate  coffin 
put  in  the  earth.  But  she  knew  that  of  human  beings  there 
were  at  least  two  very  different  breeds,  of  one  of  which  she 
knew  something  of  the  habits  and  customs,  while  of  the  other 
she  knew  nothing,  except  that  they  lived  in  great  houses,  from 
which  they  were  carried  away  in  splendid  black  carriages, 
drawn  by  ever  so  many  horses,  with  great  black  feathers  grow- 
ing out  of  their  heads.     What  became  of  them  after  that  she 


60  Guild  Court. 

had  not  the  smallest  idea,  for  no  doubt  they  would  be  disposed 
of  in  a  manner  very  different  from  the  funerals  she  had 
been  allowed  to  be  present  at.  When  she  entered  the  wax- 
work exhibition  the  question  was  solved.  This  was  one  of  the 
places  to  which  they  carried  the  grand  people  after  they  were 
dead.  Here  they  set  them  up,  dressed  in  their  very  best,  to 
stand  there  till — ah,  till  when,  Poppie  ?  That  question  she 
made  no  attempt  to  answer.  She  did  not  like  the  look  of  the 
dead  people.  She  thought  it  a  better  way  to  put  them  in  the 
earth  and  have  done  with  them,  for  they  had  a  queer  look,  as  if 
they  did  not  altogether  like  the  affair  themselves.  And  when 
one  of  them  stared  at  her,  she  dodged  its  eyes,  and  had  enough 
to  do  between  them  all  and  the  showman  ;  for  though  Poppie 
was  not  afraid  of  anybody,  she  had  an  instinctive  knowledge 
that  it  was  better  to  keep  out  of  some  people's  way.  She  fol- 
lowed the  sight  of  her  friend,  however,  till  the  couple  went  into 
the  "chamber  of  horrors,"  as  if  there  was  not  horror  enough 
in  seeing  humanity  imitated  so  abominably  in  the  outer  room. 

Yes,  I  am  sorry  to  say  it,  Lucy  went  into  that  place,  but 
she  did  not  know  what  she  was  doing,  and  it  was  weeks  before 
she  recovered  her  self-respect  after  it.  However,  as  Thomas 
seemed  interested,  she  contrived  to  endure  it  for  a  little  while 
— to  endure,  I  do  not  mean  the  horror,  for  that  was  not  very 
great — but  the  vulgarity  of  it  all.  Poppie  lingered,  not  dar- 
ing to  follow  them,  and  at  length,  seeing  a  large  party  arrive, 
began  to  look  about  for  some  place  of  refuge.  In  the  art  of 
vanishing  she  was  an  adept,  with  an  extraordinary  proclivity 
toward  holes  and  corners.  In  fact,  she  could  hardly  see  a 
hole  big  enough  to  admit  her  without  darting  into  it  at  once 
to  sea  if  it  would  do — for  what,  she  could  not  have  specified 
— but  for  general  purposes  of  refuge.  She  considered  all  such 
places  handy,  and  she  found  one  handy  now. 

Close  to  the  entrance,  in  a  recess,  was  a  couch,  and  on  this 
couch  lay  a  man.  He  did  not  look  like  the  rest  of  the  dead 
people,  for  his  eyes  were  closed.  Then  the  dead  people  went 
to  bed  sometimes,  and  to  sleep.  Happy  dead  people — in  abed 
like  this  !  For  there  was  a  black  velvet  cover  thrown  over  the 
sleeping  dead  man,  so  that  nothing  but  his  face  was  visible  ; 
and  to  the  eyes  of  Poppie  this  pall  looked  so  soft,  so  comfort- 
able, so  enticing  !  It  was  a  place  to  dream  in.  And  could 
there  be  any  better  hiding-place  than  this  ?  If  the  man  was 
both  dead  and  sleeping,  he  would  hardly  object  to  having  her 
for  a  companion.  But  as  she  sent  one  parting  peep  round  the 
corner  of  William  Pitt  or  Dick  Turpin,  after  her  friends,  ere 


Poppie.  61 

she  forsook  them  to  lie  down  with  the  dead,  one  of  the  attend- 
ants caught  siglrfc  of  her,  and  advanced  to  expel  the  dangerous 
intruder.  Poppie  turned  and  fled,  sprang  into  the  recess, 
crept  under  the  cover,  like  a  hunted  mouse,  and  lay  still,  the 
bed-fellow  of  no  less  illustrious  a  personage  than  the  Duke  of 
Wellington,  and  cold  as  he  must  have  been,  Poppie  found  him 
warmer  than  her  own  legs.  The  man  never  thought  of  fol- 
lowing her  in  that  direction,  and  supposed  that  she  had 
escaped  as  she  had  managed  to  intrude. 

Poppie  found  the  place  so  comfortable  that  she  had  no  in- 
clination to  change  her  quarters  in  haste.  True,  it  was  not 
nice  to  feel  the  dead  man  when  she  put  out  foot  or  hand  ;  but 
then  she  need  not  put  out  foot  or  hand.  And  Poppie  was  not 
used  to  feeling  warm.  It  was  a  rare  sensation,  and  she  found 
it  delightful.  Every  now  and  then  she  peeped  from  under  the 
mortclotli — for  the  duke  was  supposed  to  be  lying  in  state — to 
see  whether  Thomas  and  Lucy  were  coming.  But  at  length, 
what  with  the  mental  and  physical  effects  of  warmth  and  com- 
fort combined,  she  fell  fast  asleep,  and  dreamed  she  was  in  a 
place  she  had  been  in  once  before,  though  she  had  forgotten 
all  about  it.  From  the  indefinite  account  she  gave  of  it,  I  can 
only  conjecture  that  it  was  the  embodiment  of  the  vaguest 
memory  of  a  motherly  bosom  ;  that  it  was  her  own  mother's 
bosom  she  recalled  even  thus  faintly,  I  much  doubt.  But 
from  this  undefined  bliss  she  was  suddenly  aroused  by  a  rough 
hand  and  a  rough  voice  loaded  with  a  curse.  Poppie  was  used 
to  curses,  and  did  not  mind  them  a  bit — somehow  they  never 
hurt  her — but  she  was  a  little  frightened  at  the  face  of  indig- 
nant surprise  and  wrath  which  she  saw  bending  over  her  when 
she  awoke.  It  was  that  of  one  of  the  attendants,  with  a  police- 
man beside  him,  for  whom  he  had  sent  before  he  awoke  the  child, 
allowing  her  thus  a  lew  moments  of  unconscious  blessedness,  with 
the  future  hanging  heavy  in  the  near  distance.  But  the  duke 
had  slept  none  the  less  soundly  that  she  was  by  his  side,  and  had 
lost  none  of  the  warmth  that  she  had  gained.  It  was  well  for 
Ruth  that  there  were  no  police  when  she  slept  in  Boaz's  barn ;  still 
better  that  some  of  the  clergymen,  who  serve  God  by  reading 
her  story  on  the  Sunday,  were  not  the  magistrates  before 
whom  the  police  carried  her.  With  a  tight  grasp  on  her  arm, 
Poppie  was  walked  away  in  a  manner  uncomfortable  certainly 
to  one  who  was  accustomed  to  trot  along  at  her  own  sweet 
will — and  a  sweet  will  it  was,  that  for  happiness  was  content 
to  follow  and  keep  within  sight  of  some  one  that  drew  her, 
without  longing  for  even  a  word  of  grace — to  what  she  had 


62  Guild  Court. 

learned  to  call  the  jug,  namely,  the  police  prison  ;  but  my 
reader  must  not  spend  too  much  of  his  stock  of  sympathy  upon 
Poppie  ;  for  she  did  not  mind  it  much.  To  be  sure  in  such 
weather  the  jug  was  very  cold,  but  she  had  the  memories  of 
the  past  to  comfort  her,  the  near  past,  spent  in  the  society  of 
the  dead  duke,  warm  and  consoling.  When  she  fell  asleep  on 
the  hard  floor  of  the  lock-up,  she  dreamed  that  she  was  dead 
and  buried,  and  trying  to  be  warm  and  comfortable,  as  she 
ought  to  be  in  her  grave,  only  somehow  or  another  she  could 
not  get  things  to  come  right ;  the  wind  would  blow  through 
the  chinks  of  her  pauper's  coffin  ;  and  she  wished  she  had  been 
a  duke  or  a  great  person  generally,  to  be  so  grandly  buried  as 
they  were  in  the  cemetery  in  Baker  Street.  But  Poppie  was 
far  less  to  be  pitied  for  the  time,  cold  as  she  was,  than  Mary 
Boxall,  lying  half  asleep  and  half  awake  and  all  dreaming  in 
that  comfortable  room,  with  a  blazing  fire,  and  her  own  mother 
sitting  beside  it.  True,  likewise,  Poppie  heard  a  good  many 
bad  words  and  horrid  speeches  in  the  jug,  but  she  did  not  heed, 
them  much.  Indeed,  they  did  not  even  distress  her,  she  was 
so  used  to  them  ;  nor,  upon  occasion,  was  her  own  language 
the  very  pink  of  propriety.  How  could  it  be  ?  The  vocabu- 
lary in  use  in  the  houses  she  knew  had  ten  vulgar  words  in  it 
to  one  that  Mattie,  for  instance,  would  hear.  But  whether 
Poppie,  when  speaking  the  worst  language  that  ever  crossed 
her  lips,  was  lower,  morally  and  spiritually  considered,  than 
the  young  lord  in  the  nursery,  who,  speaking  with  articulation 
clear  cut  as  his  features,  and  in  language  every  word  of  which 
is  to  be  found  in  Johnson,  refuses  his  brother  a  share  of  his 
tart  and  gobbles  it  up  himself,  there  is  to  me,  knowing  that  if 
Poppie  could  swear  she  could  share,  no  question  whatever. 
G-od  looks  after  his  children  in  the  cellars  as  well  as  in  the 
nurseries  of  London. 

Of  course  she  was  liberated  in  the  morning,  for  the  police 
magistrates  of  London  are  not  so  cruel  as  some  of  those  coun- 
try clergymen  who,  not  content  with  preaching  about  the  jus- 
tice of  G-od  from  the  pulpit,  must  seat  themselves  on  the 
magistrate's  bench  to  dispense  the  injustice  of  men.  If  she 
had  been  brought  before  some  of  them  for  sleeping  under  a 
hay-stack,  and  having  no  money  in  her  pocket,  as  if  the  night 
sky,  besides  being  a  cold  tester  to  lie  under,  were  something 
wicked  as  well,  she  would  have  been  sent  to  prison ;  for,  in- 
stead of  believing  in  the  blessedness  of  the  poor,  they  are  of 
Miss  Kilmansegg's  opinion,  "that  people  with  nought  are 
naughty."     The  poor  little  thing  was  only  reprimanded  for 


Mr.  Simon's  Attempt.  63 

being  where  she  had  no  business  to  be,  and  sent  away.  But 
it  was  no  wonder  if,  after  this  adventure,  she  should  know 
Thomas  again  when  she  saw  him  ;  nay,  that  she  should  some- 
times trot  after  him  for  the  length  of  a  street  or  so.  But  he 
never  noticed  her. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

mk.  simon's  attempt. 

The  next  day  the  sun  shone  brilliantly  upon  the  snow  as 
Thomas  walked  to  the  counting-house.  He  was  full  of  pleas- 
ant thoughts,  crossed  and  shadowed  by  a  few  of  a  different 
kind.  He  was  not  naturally  deceitful,  and  the  sense  of  hav- 
ing a  secret  which  must  get  him  into  trouble  if  it  were  dis- 
covered, and  discovered  it  must  be  some  day,  could  not  fail  to 
give  him  uneasiness  notwithstanding  the  satisfaction  which 
the  romance  of  the  secrecy  of  a  love  affair  afforded  him. 
Nothing,  however,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  could  be  done,  for  he 
was  never  ready  to  do  anything  to  which  he  was  neither  led 
nor  driven.  He  could  not  generate  action,  or,  rather,  he  had 
never  yet  begun  to  generate  action. 

As  soon  as  he.  reached  Bagot  Street,  he  tapped  at  the  glass 
door,  and  was  admitted  to  Mr.  Boxall's  room.  He  found 
him  with  a  look  of  anxiety  upon  a  face  not  used  to  express 
that  emotion. 

"  I  hope  Miss  Mary — "  Thomas  began,  with  a  little  hesita- 
tion. 

"  She's  very  ill,"  said  her  father,  "very  ill,  indeed.  It  was 
enough  to  be  the  death  of  her.     Excessively  imprudent." 

Now  Mary  had  been  as  much  to  blame,  if  there  was  any 
blame  at  all,  for  the  present  results  of  the  Christmas  morning, 
as  Thomas  ;  but  he  had  still  generosity  enough  left  not  to  say 
so  to  her  father. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  he  said.  "We  were  caught  in  the  snow, 
and  lost  our  way." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know.  I  oughtn't  to  be  too  hard  upon  young 
people,"  returned  Mr.  Boxall,  remembering,  perhaps,  that  he 
had  his  share  of  the  blame  in  leaving  them  so  much  to  them- 
selves. 


64:  Guild  Court. 

"I  only  hope  she  may  get  through  it.  But  she's  in  a  bad 
way.     She  was  quite  delirious  last  night." 

Thomas  was  really  concerned  for  a  moment,  and  looked  so. 
Mr.  Boxall  saw  it,  and  spoke  more  kindly. 

"I  trust,  however,  that  there  is  not  any  immediate  danger. 
It's  no  use  you  coming  to  see  her.  She  can't  see  anybody  but 
the  doctor." 

This  was  a  relief  to  Thomas.  But  it  was  rather  alarming 
to  find  that  Mr.  Boxall  clearly  expected  him  to  want  to  go  to 
see  her. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  he  said  again  ;  and  that  was  all  he  could 
find  to  say. 

"Well,  well,"  returned  his  master,  accepting  the  words  as 
if  they  had  been  an  apology.  "We  must  do  our  work,  any- 
how.    Business  is  the  first  thing,  you  know." 

Thomas  took  this  as  a  dismissal,  and  retired  to  the  outer 
office,  in  a  mood  considerably  different  from  that  which  Mr. 
Boxall  attributed  to  him. 

A  clerk's  duty  is  a  hard  one,  and  this  ought  to  be  acknowl- 
edged. Neither  has  he  any  personal  interest  in  the  result  of  the 
special  labor  to  which  he  is  for  the  time  devoted,  nor  can  this  la- 
bor have  much  interest  of  its  own  beyond  what  comes  of  getting 
things  square,  and  the  sense  of  satisfaction  which  springs  from 
activity,  and  the  success  of  completion.  And  it  is  not  often 
that  a  young  man  is  fortunate  enough  to  have  a  master  who 
will  not  only  appreciate  his  endeavors,  but  will  let  him  know 
that  he  does  appreciate  them.  There  are  reasons  for  the  latter 
fact  beyond  disposition  and  temperament.  The  genial  em- 
ployer has  so  often  found  that  a  strange  process  comes  into 
operation  in  young  and  old,  which  turns  the  honey  of  praise 
into  the  poison  of  self-conceit,  rendering  those  to  whom  it  is 
given  disagreeable,  and  ere  long  insufferable,  that  he  learns  to 
be  very  chary  in  the  administration  of  the  said  honey,  lest 
subordinates  think  themselves  indispensable,  and  even  neglect 
the  very  virtues  which  earned  them  the  praise.  A  man  must 
do  his  duty,  if  he  would  be  a  free  man,  whether  he  likes  it  or 
not,  and  whether  it  is  appreciated  or  not.  But  if  he  can  re- 
gard it  as  the  will  of  God,  the  work  not  fallen  upon  him  by 
chance,  but  given  him  to  do,  understanding  that  every  thing 
well  done  belongs  to  His  kingdom,  and  every  thing  ill  done  to 
the  kingdom  of  darkness,  surely  even  the  irksomeness  of  his 
work  will  be  no  longer  insuperable.  But  Thomas  had  never 
been  taught  this.  He  did  not  know  that  his  day's  work  had 
anything  to  do  with  the  saving  of  his  soul.     Poor  Mr.  Simon 


Mr.  Simon's  Attempt  65 

gave  him  of  what  he  had,  like  his  namesake  at  the  gate  of  the 
temple,  but  all  he  had  served  only  to  make  a  man  creep;  it 
could  not  make  him  stand  up  and  walk.  "A  servant  with 
this  clause," — that  is  the  clause,  "for  thy  sake," — wrote 
George  Herbert : 

"  A  servant  with  this  clause 
Makes  drudgery  divine  ; 
Who  sweeps  a  room,  as  for  thy  laws, 
Makes  that  and  the  action  fine." 

But  Mr.  Simon  could  not  understand  the  half  of  this,  and 
nothing  at  all  of  the  essential  sacredness  of  the  work  which 
God  would  not  give  a  man  to  do  if  it  were  not  sacred.  Hence 
Thomas  regarded  his  work  only  as  drudgery  ;  considered 
it  beneath  him  ;  judged  himself  fitter  for  the  army,  and  had 
hankerings  after  gold  lace.  He  dabbled  with  the  fancy  that 
there  was  a  mistake  somewhere  in  the  arrangement  of  mun- 
dane affairs,  a  serious  one,  for  was  he  not  fitted  by  nature  to 
move  in  some  showy  orbit,  instead  of  being  doomed  to  rise  in 
Highbury,  shine  in  Bagot  Street,  and  set  yet  again  in  High- 
bury ?  And  so,  although  he  did  not  absolutely  neglect  his 
work,  for  he  hated  to  be  found  fault  with,  he  just  did  it,  not 
entering  into  it  with  any  spirit ;  and  as  he  was  clever  enough, 
things  went  on  with  tolerable  smoothness. 

That  same  evening,  when  he  went  home  from  his  German 
lesson  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  his  interview  with  Lucy  of 
an  hour  and  a  quarter,  he  found  Mr.  Simon  with  his  mother. 
Thomas  would  have  left  the  room  ;  for  his  conscience  now 
made  him  wish  to  avoid  Mr.  Simon — who  had  pressed  him  so 
hard  with  the  stamp  of  religion  that  the  place  was  painful, 
although  the  impression  was  fast  disappearing. 

"  Thomas,"  said  his  mother,  with  even  more  than  her  usual 
solemnity,  "  Thomas,  come  here.  We  want  to  have  some  con- 
versation with  you." 

"  I  have  not  had  my  tea  yet,  mother." 

"  You  can  have  your  tea  afterward.  I  wish  you  to  come 
here  now." 

Thomas  obeyed,  and  threw  himself  with  some  attempt  at 
nonchalance  into  a  chair. 

''Thomas,  my  friend,"  began  Mr.  Simon,  with  a  tone — how 
am  I  to  describe  it  ?  I  could  easily,  if  I  chose  to  use  a  con- 
temptuous word,  but  I  do  not  wish  to  intrude  on  the  region  of 
the  comic  satirist,  and  must  therefore  use  a  periphrase — with 
5 


66  Guild  Court 

the  tone  which  corresponds  to  the  long  face  some  religious 
people  assume  the  moment  the  conversation  turns  toward 
sacred  things,  and  in  which  a  certain  element  of  the  ludicrous, 
because  affected,  goes  far  to  destroy  the  solemnity,  "  I  am  un- 
easy about  you.  Do  not  think  me  interfering,  for  I  watch  for 
your  soul  as  one  that  must  give  an  account.  I  have  to  give  an 
account  of  you,  for  at  one  time  you  were  the  most  promising 
seal  of  my  ministry.  But  your  zeal  has  grown  cold  ;  you  are 
unfaithful  to  your  first  love  ;  and  when  the  Lord  cometh  as 
a  thief  in  the  night,  you  will  be  to  him  as  one  of  the  luke- 
warm, neither  cold  nor  hot,  my  poor  friend.  He  will  spue  you 
out  of  his  mouth.  And  I  may  be  to  blame  for  this,  though  at 
present  I  know  not  how.  Ah,  Thomas  !  Thomas  !  Do  not  let 
me  have  shame  of  you  at  his  appearing.  The  years  are  fleet- 
ing fast,  and  although  he  delay  his  coming,  yet  he  will  come  ; 
and  he  will  slay  his  enemies  with  the  two-edged  sword  that 
proceedeth  out  of  his  mouth." 

Foolish  as  Mr.  Simon  was,  be  was  better  than  Mr.  Potter,  if 
Mr.  Kitely's  account  of  him  was  correct ;  for  he  was  in  earn- 
est, and  acted  upon  his  belief.  But  he  knew  nothing  of  human 
nature,  and  as  Thomas  grew  older,  days,  even  hours,  had 
widened  the  gulf  between  them,  till  his  poor  feeble  influences 
could  no  longer  reach  across  it,  save  as  unpleasant  reminders 
of  something  that  had  been.  Happy  is  the  youth  of  whom  a 
sensible,  good  clergyman  has  a  firm  hold — a  firm  human 
hold,  I  mean — not  a  priestly  one,  such  as  Mr.  Simon's.  But 
if  the  clergyman  be  feeble  and  foolish,  the  worst  of  it  is,  that 
the  youth  will  transfer  his  growing  contempt  for  the  clergy- 
man to  the  religion  of  which  he  is  such  a  poor  representative. 
I  know  another  clergyman — perhaps  my  readers  may  know 
!  him  too — who,  instead  of  lecturing  Thomas  through  the  me- 
j  dium  of  a  long  string  of  Scripture  phrases,  which  he  would 
have  had  far  too  much  reverence  to  use  after  such  a  fashion, 
would  have  taken  him  by  the  shoulder,  and  said,  "  Tom,  my 
boy,  you've  got  something  on  your  mind.  I  hope  it's  nothing 
wrong.  But  whatever  it  is,  mind  you  come  to  me  if  I  can  be 
of  any  use  to  you." 

To  such  a  man  there  would  have  been  a  chance  of  Tom's 
making  a  clean  breast  of  it — not  yet,  though — not  before  he 
got  into  deep  water.  But  Mr.  Simon  had  not  the  shadow  of 
a  chance  of  making  him  confess.  How  could  Thomas  tell 
such  a  man  that  he  was  in  love  with  one  beautiful  girl,  and 
had  foolishly  got  himself  into  a  scrape  with  another  ? 

By  this  direct  attack  upon  him  in  the  presence  of  his 


Mr.  Simon's  Attempt.  67 

mother,  the  man  had  lost  the  last  remnant  of  his  influence 
over  him,  and/ in  fact,  made  him  feel  as  if  he  should  like  to 
punch  his  head,  if  it  were  not  that  he  could  not  bear  to  hurt 
the  meek  little  sheep.  He  did  not  know  that  Mr.  Simon  had 
been  rather  a  bruiser  at  college — small  and  meek  as  he  was — 
only  that  was  before  his  conversion.  If  he  had  cared  to  def eud 
himself  from  such  an  attack,  which  I  am  certain  he  would 
not  have  doubled  fist  to  do,  Thomas  could  not  have  stood  one 
minute  before  him. 

"  Why  do  you  not  speak,  Thomas  ?  "  said  his  mother,  gently. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  say,  mother  ?"  asked  Thomas 
in  return,  with  rising  anger.  He  never  could  resist  except  his 
temper  came  to  his  aid. 

"Say  what  you  ought  to  say,"  returned  Mrs.  Worboise, 
more  severely. 

"  What  ought  I  to  say,  Mr.  Simon  ?  "  said  Thomas,  with  a 
tone  of  mock  submission,  not  so  marked,  however,  that  Mr. 
Simon,  who  was  not  sensitive,  detected  it. 

"  Say,  my  young  friend,  that  you  will  carry  the  matter  to 
the  throne  of  grace,  and  ask  the  aid — " 

But  I  would  rather  not  record  sacred  words  which,  whatever 
they  might  mean  in  Mr.  Simon's  use  of  them,  mean  so  little 
in  relation  to  my  story. 

Thomas,  however,  was  not  yet  so  much  of  a  hypocrite  as  his 
training  had  hitherto  tended  to  make  him,  and  again  he  sat 
silent  for  a  few  moments,  during  which  his  mother  and  her 
friend  sat  silent  likewise,  giving  him  time  for  reflection. 
Then  he  spoke,  anxious  to  get  rid  of  the  whole  unpleasant  affair. 

"I  will  j>romise  to  think  of  what  you  have  said,  Mr.  Simon." 

"  Yes,  Thomas,  but  how  will  you  think  of  it  ?  "  said  his 
mother. 

Mr.  Simon,  however,  glad  to  have  gained  so  much  of  a 
concession,  spoke  more  genially.  He  would  not  drive  the 
matter  further  at  present. 

"Do,  dear  friend,  and  may  He  guide  you  into  the  truth. 
Eemember,  Thomas,  the  world  and  the  things  of  this  world 
are  passing  away.  You  are  a  child  no  longer,  and  are  herewith 
called  upon  to  take  your  part,  for  God  or  against  him — " 

And  so  on,  till  Thomas  grew  weary  as  well  as  annoyed. 

"Will  you  tell  me  what  fault  you  have  to  find  with  me  ?" 
he  said  at  last.    "  I  am  regular  at  the  Sunday-school,  I  am  sure." 

"Yes,  that  we  must  allow,  and  heartily,"  answered  Mr. 
Simon,  turning  to  Mrs.  Worboise  as  if  to  give  her  the  initia- 
tive, for  he  thought  her  rather  hard  with  her  son ;  "only  I 


68  Guild  Court. 

would  just  suggest  to  you,  Mr.  ^Thomas — I  don't  ask  you  the 
question,  but  I  would  have  you  ask  yourself — whether  your 
energy  is  equal  to  what  it  has  been  ?  Take  care  lest,  while 
you  teach  others,  you  yourself  should  be  a  castaway.  Kemem- 
ber  that  nothing  but  faith  in  the  merits — " 

Thus  started  again,  he  went  on,  till  Thomas  was  forced  loose 
from  all  sympathy  with  things  so  unmercifully  driven  upon 
him,  and  vowed  in  his  heart  that  he  would  stand  it  no  longer. 

Still  speaking,  Mr.  Simon  rose  to  take  his  leave.  Thomas, 
naturally  polite,  and  anxious  to  get  out  of  the  scrutiny  of  those 
cold  blue  eyes  of  his  mother,  went  to  open  the  door  for  him, 
and  closed  it  behind  him  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction.  Then 
he  had  his  tea  and  went  to  his  own  room,  feeling  wrong,  and 
yet  knowing  quite  well  that  he  was  going  on  to  be  and  to  do 
wrong.  Saintship  like  his  mother's  and  Mr.  Simon's  was  out 
of  his  reach. 

Perhaps  it  was.  But  there  were  other  things  essential  to 
saintship  that  were  within  his  reach — and  equally  essential  to 
the  manliness  of  a  gentleman,  which  he  would  have  been  con- 
siderably annoyed  to  be  told  that  he  was  in  much  danger  of 
falling  short  of,  if  he  did  not  in  some  way  or  other  mend  his 
ways,  and  take  heed  to  his  goings. 

The  next  morning  mother  and  pastor  held  a  long  and,  my 
reader  will  believe,  a  dreary  consultation  over  the  state  of 
Thomas.  I  will  not  afflict  him  with  a  recital  of  what  was  said 
and  resaicl  a  dozen  times  before  they  parted.  If  Mr.  "Worboise 
had  overheard  it,  he  would  have  laughed,  not  heartily,  but 
with  a  perfection  of  contempt,  for  he  despised  all  these  things, 
and  would  ha\e  despised  better  things,  too,  if  he  had  known 
them. 

The  sole  result  was  that  his  mother  watched  Thomas  with 
yet  greater  assiduity;  and  Thomas  began  to  feel  that  her 
eyes  were  never  off  him,  and  to  dislike  them  because  he  feared 
them.  He  felt  them  behind  his  back.  They  haunted  him  in 
Bagot  Street.  Happy  with  Lucy,  even  there  those  eyes  fol- 
lowed him,  as  if  searching  to  find  out  his  secret ;  and  a  vague 
fear  kept  growing  upon  him  that  the  discovery  was  at  hand. 
Hence  he  became  more  and  more  cunning  to  conceal  his  visits. 
He  dreaded  what  questions  those  questioning  eyes  might  set 
the  tongue  asking.  For  he  had  not  yet  learned  to  lie.  He 
prevaricated,  no  doubt ;  but  lying  may  be  a  step  yet  further  on 
the  downward  road. 

One  good  thing  only  came  out  of  it  all :  he  grew  more  and 
more  in  love  with  Lucy.     He  almost  loved  her. 


Business.  69 

CHAPTEK  IX. 

BUSINESS. 

For  some  days  Mr.  Boxall  was  so  uneasy  about  Mary  that 
he  forgot  his  appointment  with  Mr.  Worboise.  At  length, 
however,  when  a  thaw  had  ^et  in,  and  she  had  begun  to 
improve,  he  went  to  call  upon  his  old  friend. 

"Ah,  Boxall!  glad  to  see  you.  What  a  man  you  are  to 
make  an  appointment  with  !  Are  you  aware,  sir,  of  the  value 
of  time  in  London,  not  to  say  in  this  life  generally  ?  Are  you 
aware  that  bills  are  due  at  certain  dates,  and  that  the  man  who 
has  not  money  at  his  banker's  to  meet  them  is  dishonored — 
euphemistically  shifted  to  the  bill  ?  " 

Thus  jocosely  did  Mr.  Worboise  play  upon  the  well-known 
business  habits  of  his  friend,  who  would  rather,  or  at  least 
believed  he  would  rather,  go  to  the  scaffold  than  allow  a  bill  of 
his  to  be  dishonored.  But  Mr.  Boxall  was  in  a  good  humor, 
too,  this  morning. 

"At  least,  Worboise,"  he  answered,  "I  trust  when  the  said 
bill  is  dishonored,  you  may  not  be  the  holder." 

"Thank  you.     I  hope  not.     I  don't  like  losing  money." 

"  Oh,  don't  mistake  me  !    I  meant  for  my  sake,  not  yours." 

"Why?" 

"Because  you  would  skin  the  place  before  you  took  the 
pound  of  flesh.     I  know  you  ! " 

Mr.  Worboise  winced.  Mr.  Boxall  thought  he  had  gone  too 
far,  that  is,  had  been  rude.     But  Mr.  Worboise  laughed  aloud. 

"You  flatter  me,  Boxall,"  he  said.  "  I  had  no  idea  I  was 
such  a  sharp  practitioner.  But  you  ought  to  know  best. 
We'll  take  care,  at  all  events,  to  have  this  will  of  yours  right." 

•  So  saying,  he  went  to  a  drawer  to  get  it  out.  But  Mr.  Box- 
all  still  feared  that  his  friend  had  thought  him  rude. 

"  The  fact  is,"  he  said,  "  I  have  been  so  uneasy  about  Mary." 

"Why?  What's  the  matter  ?"  interrupted  Mr.  Worboise, 
stopping  on  his  way  across  the  room. 

"  Don't  you  know  ?  "  returned  Mr.  Boxall,  in  some  surprise. 
"  She's  never  got  over  that  Hampstead  Heath  affair.  She's 
been  in  bed  ever  since." 

"  God  bless  me  !"  exclaimed  the  other.  "I  never  heard  a 
word  of  it.     What  was  it  ?  " 

So  Mr.  Boxall  told  as  much  as  he  knew  of  the  story,  and 
any  way  there  was  not  much  to  tell. 


70  Guild  Court. 

"  Never  .heard  a  word  of  it ! "  repeated  the  lawyer. 

The  statement  made  Mr.  Boxall  more  uneasy  than  he  cared 
to  show. 

" But  I  must  be  going,"  he  said  ;  "so  let's  have  this  trouble- 
some will  signed  and  done  with." 

"  Not  in  the  least  a  troublesome  one,  I  assure  you.  Eather 
too  simple,  I  think.     Here  it  is." 

And  Mr.  Worboise  began  to  read  it  over  point  by  point  to 
his  client. 

"All  right,"  said  the  latter.  "Mrs.  Boxall  to  have  every- 
thing to  do  with  it  as  she  pleases.  It  is  the  least  I  can  say, 
for  she  has  been  a  good  wife  to  me." 

' '  And  will  be  for  many  years  to  come,  I  hope,"  said  Mr. 
"Worboise. 

"I  hope  so.     Well,  go  on." 

Mr.  Worboise  went  on. 

"All  right,"  said  his  client  again.  "  Failing  my  wife,  my 
daughters  to  have  everything,  as  indeed  they  will  whether  my 
wife  fails  or  not — at  last,  I  mean,  for  she  would  leave  it  to 
them,  of  course." 

"  Well,"  said  the  lawyer,  "and  who  comes  next  ?  " 

"  Nobody.     Who  do  you  think  ?" 

"It's  rather  a  short — doesn't  read  quite  business-like.  Put 
in  any  body,  just  for  the  chance — a  poor  one,  ha  !  ha  !  with  such 
a  fine  family  as  yours." 

"  Stick  yourself  in  then,  old  fellow  ;  and  though  it  won't  do 
you  any  good,  it  will  be  an  expression  of  my  long  esteem  and 
friendship  for  you." 

"  What  a  capital  stroke  ! "  thought  Mr.  Boxall.  "  I've 
surely  got  that  nonsense  out  of  his  head  now.  He'll  never 
think  of  it  more.     I  was  country-bred." 

"  Thank  you,  old  friend,"  said  Mr.  Worboise,  quietly,  and 
entered  his  own  name  in  succession. 

The  will  was  soon  finished,  signed,  and  witnessed  by  two  of 
Mr.  Worboise's  clerks. 

"  Now  what  is  to  be  done  with  it  ?"  asked  Mr.  Worboise. 

"  Oh,  you  take  care  of  it  for  me.  You  have  more  storage— 
for  that  kind  of  thing,  I  mean,  than  I  have.  I  should  never 
know  where  to  find  it." 

"  If  you  want  to  make  any  alteration  in  it,  there's  your  box, 
you  know." 

"  Why,  what  alteration  could  I  want  to  make  in  it  ?  " 

"  That's  not  for  me  to  suppose.  You  might  quarrel  with 
me  though,  and  want  to  strike  out  my  name." 


Business.  71 

"  True.  I  might  quarrel  with  my  wife  too,  mightn't  I,  and 
strike  her  name  out  ?  " 

"  It  might  happen." 

"  Yes  ;  anything  might  happen.  Meantime  I  am  content 
with  sufficient  probabilities." 

"  By  the  way,  how  is  that  son  of  mine  getting  on  ?" 

"  Oh,  pretty  well.  He's  regular  enough,  and  I  hear  no 
complaints  of  him  from  Stopper ;  and  Ms  sharp  enough,  I 
assure  you." 

"  But  you're  not  over-satisfied  with  him  yourself,  eh  ?  " 

"  Well,  to  speak  the  truth,  between  you  and  me,  I  don't 
think  he's  cut  out  for  our  business." 

"  That's  much  the  same  as  saying  he's  of  no  use  for  busi- 
ness of  any  sort. " 

"  I  don't  know.  He  does  his  work  fairly  well,  as  I  say,  but 
he  don't  seem  to  have  any  heart  in  it." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  he  is  fit  for  now  ?  " 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  You  could  easily  make  a  fine 
gentleman  of  him." 

Mr.  Boxall  spoke  rather  bitterly,  for  he  had  already  had 
flitting  doubts  in  his  mind  whether  Tom  had  been  behaving 
well  to  Mary.  It  had  become  very  evident  since  her  illness 
that  she  was  very  much  in  love  with  Tom,  and  that  he  should 
be  a  hair's-breadth  less  in  love  with  her  was  offense  enough  to 
rouse  the  indignation  of  a  man  like  Mr.  Boxall,  good-natured 
as  he  was  ;  and  that  he  had  never  thought  it  worth  while  even 
to  mention  the  fact  of  her  illness  to  his  father,  was  strange  to 
a  degree. 

"  But  I  can't  afford  to  make  a  fine  gentleman  of  him.  I've 
got  his  sister  to  provide  for  as  well  as  my  fine  gentleman.  I 
don't  mean  to  say  that  I  could  not  leave  him  as  much,  perhaps 
more  than  you  can  to  each  of  your  daughters  ;  but  girls  are  so 
different  from  boys.  Girls  can  live  upon  anything  ;  fine 
gentlemen  can't."    And  here  Mr.  Worboise  swore. 

"Well,  it's  no  business  of  mine,"  said  Mr.  Boxall.  "If 
there's  anything  I  can  do  for  him,  of  course,  for  your  sake, 
Worboise — " 

"  The  rascal  has  offended  him  somehow,"  said  Mr.  Worboise 
to  himself.  "  It's  that  Hampstead  business.  Have  patience 
with  the  young  dog,"  he  said,  aloud.  "  That's  all  I  ask  you 
to  do  for  him.  Who  knows  what  may  come  out  of  him 
yet  ?  " 

'"  That's  easy  to  do.  As  I  tell  you,  there's  no  fault  to  find 
with  him,"  answered  Mr.  Boxall,  afraid  that  he  had  exposed 


72    N  Guild  Court 

some  feeling  that  had  better  have  been  hidden.  "  Only  one 
must  speak  the  truth." 

With  these  words  Mr.  Boxall  took  his  leave. 

Mr.  Worboise  sat  and  cogitated. 

"There's  something  in  that  rascal's  head,  now;"  he  said  to 
himself.  "His  mother  and  that  Simon  will  make  a  spoon  of 
him.  I  want  to  get  some  sense  out  of  him  before  he's  trans- 
lated to  kingdom-come.  But  how  the  deuce  to  get  any  sense 
out  when  there's  so  precious  little  in  !  I  found  seventeen  vol- 
umes of  Byron  on  his  book-shelves  last  night.  I'll  have  a  talk 
to  his  mother  about  him.     Not  that  that's  of  much  use  !  " 

To  her  husband  Mrs.  Worboise  always  wore  a  resigned  air, 
believing  herself  unequally  yoked  to  an  unbeliever  with  a  bond 
which  she  was  not  at  liberty  to  break,  because  it  was  enjoined 
upon  her  to  win  her  husband  by  her  chaste  conversation  coup- 
led with  fear.  Therefore  when  he  went  into  her  room  that 
evening,  she  received  him  as  usual  with  a  look  which  might 
easily  be  mistaken,  and  not  much  mistaken  either,  as  ex- 
pressive of  a  sense  of  injury. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  her  husband  began,  in  a  conciliatory, 
indeed  jocose,  while  yet  complaining  tone,  "do  you  know 
what  this  precious  son  of  ours  has  been  about  ?  Killing  Mary 
Boxall  in  a  snow-storm,  and  never  telling  me  a  word  about  it. 
I  suppose  you  know  the  whole  story,  though  ?  You  might 
have  told  me." 

"Indeed,  Mr.  Worboise,  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  know  nothing 
about  Thomas  nowadays.  I  can't  understand  him.  He's 
quite  changed.  But  if  I  were  not  laid  on  a  couch  of  suffering 
— not  that  I  complain  of  that — I  should  not  come  to  you  to 
ask  what  he  was  about.     I  should  find  out  for  myself." 

"I  wish  to  goodness  you  were  able." 

"Do  not  set  your  wish  against  His  will,"  returned  Mrs. 
Worboise,  with  a  hopeless  reproof  in  her  tone,  implying  that  it 
was  of  no  use  to  say  so,  but  she  must  bear  her  testimony  not- 
withstanding. 

"Oh!  no,  no,"  returned  her  husband;  "nothing  of  the 
sort.  Nothing  further  from  my  intention.  But  what  is  to 
be  done  about  this  affair  ?  You  know  it  would  please  you  as 
well  as  me  to  see  him  married  to  Mary  Boxall.  She's  a  good 
girl,  that  you  know." 

"  If  I  were  sure  that  she  was  a  changed  character,  there  is  noth- 
ing I  should  like  better,  I  confess — that  is,  of  worldly  interest." 

"  Come,  come,  Mrs.  Worboise.  I  don't  think  you're  quite 
fair  to  the  girl." 


Business.  73 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Worboise  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  just  now  you  seemed  in  considerable  doubt 
whether  or  not  your  son  was  a  changed  character,  as 
you  call  it.  And  yet  you  say  that  if  Mary  Boxall  were  a 
changed  character,  you  would  not  wish  anything  more — that 
is,  of  worldly  interest — than  to  see  him  married  to  Mary 
Boxall.  Is  that  fair  to  Mary  Boxall  ?  I  put  the  question 
merely." 

"  There  would  be  the  more  hope  for  him  ;  for  the  Scripture 
says  that  the  believing  wife  may  save  her  husband." 

Mr.  Worboise  winked  inwardly  to  himself.  Because  his 
wife's  religion  was  selfish,  and  therefore  irreligious,  therefore, 
religion  was  a  humbug,  and  therefore  his  conduct  might  be  as 
selfish  as  ever  he  chose  to  make  it. 

"But  how  about  Mary  ?  Why  should  you  wish  her,  if  she 
was  a  changed  character,  to  lose  her  advantage  by  marrying 
one  who  is  not  so  ?  " 

"  She  might  change  him,  Mr.  Worboise,  as  I  have  said  al- 
ready," returned  the  lady,  decisively  ;  "for  she  might  speak 
with  authority  to  one  who  knew  nothing  about  these  things. " 

"  Yes.  But  if  Thomas  were  changed,  and  Mary  not — what 
then?" 

Mrs.  Worboise  murmured  something  not  quite  audible  about 
"I  and  the  children  whom  God  hath  given  me." 

"At  the  expense  of  the  children  he  hasn't  given  you  ! "  said 
Mr.  Worboise,  at  a  venture  ;  and  chuckled  now,  for  he  saw  his 
victory  in  her  face. 

But  Mr.  Worboise's  chuckle  always  made  Mrs.  Worboise 
shut  up,  and  not  another  word  could  he  get  out  of  her  that 
evening.  She  never  took  refuge  in  her  illness,  but  in  an  ab- 
solute dogged  silence,  which  she  persuaded  herself  that  she  was 
suffering  for  the  truth's  sake. 

Her  husband's  communication  made  her  still  more  anxious 
about  Thomas,  and  certain  suspicions  she  had  begun  to  enter- 
tain about  the  German  master  became  more  decided.  In  her 
last  interview  with  Mr.  Simon,  she  had  hinted  to  him  that 
Thomas  ought  to  be  watched,  that  they  might  know  whether 
he  really  went  to  his  German  lesson  or  went  somewhere  else. 
But  Mr.  Simon  was  too  much  of  a  gentleman  not  to  recoil 
from  the  idea,  and  Mrs.  Worboise  did  not  venture  to  press  it. 
When  she  saw  him  again,  however,  she  suggested — I  think  I 
had  better  give  the  substance  of  the  conversation,  for  it  would 
not  in  itself  be  interesting  to  my  readers — she  suggested  her 
fears  that  his  German  master  had  been  mingling  German 


74  Guild  Court. 

theology  with  his  lessons,  and  so  corrupting  the  soundness  of 
his  faith.  This  seemed  to  Mr.  Simon  very  possible  indeed, 
for  he  knew  how  insidious  the  teachers  of  such  doctrines  are, 
and,  glad  to  do  something  definite  for  his  suffering  friend,  he 
offered  to  call  upon  the  man  and  see  what  sort  of  person  he 
was.  This  offer  Mrs.  Worboise  gladly  accepted,  without  think- 
ing that  of  all  men  to  find  out  any  insidious  person,  Mr.  Simon, 
in  his  simplicity,  was  the  least  likely. 

But  now  the  difficulty  arose  that  they  knew  neither  his  name 
nor  where  he  lived,  and  they  could  not  ask  Thomas  about  him. 
So  Mr.  Simon  undertook  the  task  of  finding  the  man  by  in- 
quiry in  the  neighborhood  of  Bagot  Street. 

"My  friend."  he  said,  stepping  the  next  morning  into  Mr. 
Eatery's  shop,— he  had  a  way  of  calling  everybody  his  friend, 
thinking  so  to  recommend  the  Gospel. 

"At  your  service,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Kitely,  brusquely,  as 
he  stepped  from  behind  one  of  the  partitions  in  the  shop,  and 
saw  the  little  clerical  apparition  which  had  not  even  waited  to 
see  the  form  of  the  human  being  to  whom  he  applied  the  sacred 
epithet. 

"  I  only  wanted  to  ask  you,"  drawled  Mr.  Simon,  in  a  drawl 
both  of  earnestness  and  unconscious  affectation,  "  whether  you 
happen  to  know  of  a  German  master  somewhere  in  this  neigh- 
borhood." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  returned  Mr.  Kitely,  in  a  tone  that 
indicated  a  balancing  rather  than  pondering  operation  of  the 
mind.  For  although  he  was  far  enough  from  being  a  Scotch- 
man, he  always  liked  to  know  why  one  asked  a  question,  before 
he  cared  to  answer  it.  "I  don't  know  as  I  could  recommend 
one  over  another." 

"  I  am  not  in  want  of  a  master.  I  only  wish  to  find  out  one 
that  lives  in  this  neighborhood." 

"I  know  at  least  six  of  them  within  a  radius  of  one-half 
mile,  taking  my  shop  here  for  the  center  of  the  circle,"  said 
Mr.  Kitely,  consequentially.  "What's  the  man's  name  you 
want  ?  " 

"  That  is  what  I  cannot  tell  you." 

"  Then  how  am  I  to  tell  you,  sir  ?  " 

"  If  you  will  oblige  me  with  the  names  and  addresses  of 
those  six  you  mention,  one  of  them  will  very  likely  be  the  man 
I  want." 

"I  dare  say  the  clergyman  wants  Mr.  Moloch,  father,"  said 
a  voice  from  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  floor,  "  the 
foreign  gentleman  that  Mr.  Worboise  goes  to  see,  up  the  court." 


Business.  75 

"  That's  the  very  man,  my  child,"  responded  Mr.  Simon. 
"  Thank  you  very  much.     Where  shall  I  find  him  ?  " 

"I'll  show  you," returned  Mattie. 

"Why  couldn't  he  have  said  so  before?"  remarked  Mr. 
Kitely  to  himself  with  indignation.    "  But  it's  just  like  them." 

By  them  he  meant  clergymen  in  general. 

"  What  a  fearful  name — Moloch ! "  reflected  Mr.  Simon,  as 
he  followed  Mattie  up  the  court.  He  would  have  judged  it  a 
name  of  bad  omen,  had  he  not  thought  omen  rather  a  wicked 
word.  The  fact  was,  the  German's  name  was  Molken,  a  very 
innocent  one,  far  too  innocent  for  its  owner,  for  it  means  only 
whey. 

Herr  Molken  was  a  ne'er-do-weel  student  of  Heidelberg,  a 
clever  fellow,  if  not  a  scholar,  whose  bad  habits  came  to  be  too 
well  known  at  home  for  his  being  able  to  indulge  them  there 
any  longer,  and  who  had  taken  refuge  in  London  from  certain 
disagreeable  consequences  which  not  unfrequently  follow  aber- 
rant efforts  to  procure  the  means  of  gambling  and  general  dis- 
sipation. Thomas  had  as  yet  spent  so  little  time  in  his  com- 
pany, never  giving  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  so  to  his 
lesson,  that  Molken  had  had  no  opportunity  of  influencing 
him  in  any  way.  But  he  was  one  of  those  who,  the  moment 
they  make  a  new  acquaintance,  begin  examining  him  for  the 
sake  of  discovering  his  weak  points,  that  they  may  get  some 
hold  of  him.  He  measured  his  own  strength  or  weakness  by 
the  number  of  persons  of  whom  at  any  given  time  he  had  a 
hold  capable' of  being  turned  to  advantage  in  some  way  or  other 
in  the  course  of  events.  Of  all  dupes,  one  with  some  intellect 
and  no  principle,  weakened  by  the  trammels  of  a  religious  sys- 
tem with  which  he  is  at  strife,  and  which  therefore  hangs 
like  a  millstone  about  his  neck,  impedes  his  every  motion, 
and  gives  him  up  to  the  mercy  of  his  enemy,  is  the  most 
thorough  prey  to  the  pigeon-plucker ;  for  such  a  one  has 
no  recuperative  power,  and  the  misery  of  his  conscience  makes 
him  abject.  Molken  saw  that  Tom  was  clever,  and  he  seemed 
to  have  some  money — if  he  could  get  this  hold  of  him  in  any 
way,  it  might  be  "  to  the  welfare  of  his  advantage." 

The  next  lesson  fell  on  the  evening  after  Mr.  Simon's  visit 
in  Guild  Court,  and  Mr.  Molken  gave  Thomas  a  full  account 
of  the  "beseek"  he  had  had  from  "one  soft  ghostly,"  who 
wanted  to  find  out  something  about  Thomas,  and  how  he  had 
told  him  that  Mr.  Worboise  was  a  most  excellent  and  religious 
young  man ;  that  he  worked  very  hard  at  his  German,  and 
that  he  never  spent  less  (here  Mr.  Molken  winked  at  Thomas) 


76  Guild  Court. 

than  an  hour  and  a  half  over  Krummacher  or  some  other  re- 
ligious writer.  All  this  Mr.  Simon  had  faithfully  reported  to 
Mrs.  Worboise,  never  questioning  what  Mr.  Molken  told  him, 
though  how  any  one  could  have  looked  at  him  without  finding 
cause  to  doubt  whatever  he  might  say,  I  can  hardly  imagine. 
For  Mr.  Molken  was  a  small,  wiry  man,  about  thirty,  with 
brows  overhanging  his  eyes  like  the  eaves  of  a  Swiss  cottage, 
and  rendering  those  black  and  wicked  luminaries  blacker  and 
more  wicked  still.  His  hair  was  black,  his  beard  was  black, 
his  skin  was  swarthy,  his  forehead  was  large  ;  his  nose  looked 
as  if  it  had  been  made  of  putty  and  dabbed  on  after  the  rest 
of  his  face  was  finished ;  his  mouth  was  sensual ;  and,  in 
short,  one  was  inclined  to  put  the  question  in  the  gospel — 
Whether  hath  sinned,  this  man  or  his  parents  ?  He  could, 
notwithstanding,  make  himself  so  agreeable,  had  such  a  win- 
ning carriage  and  dignified  deference,  that  he  soon  disarmed 
the  suspicion  caused  by  his  appearance.  He  had,  besides, 
many  accomplishments,  and  seemed  to  know  everything — at 
least  to  a  lad  like  Thomas,  who  could  not  detect  the  assump- 
tion which  not  unfrequently  took  the  place  of  knowledge.  He 
manifested,  also,  a  genuine  appreciation  of  his  country's  poetry, 
and  even  the  short  lessons  to  which  Thomas  submitted  had 
been  enlivened  by  Herr  Molken's  enthusiasm  for  Goethe.  If 
those  of  his  poems  which  he  read  and  explained  to  Thomas 
were  not  of  the  best,  they  were  none  the  worse  for  his  pur- 
poses. 

Now  he  believed  he  had  got,  by  Mr.  Simon's  aid,  the  hold 
that  he  wanted.  His  one  wink,  parenthetically  introduced 
above,  revealed  to  Thomas  that  he  was  master  of  his  secret, 
and  Thomas  felt  that  he  was,  to  a  considerable  degree,  in  his 
hands.     This,  however,  caused  him  no  apprehension. 

His  mother,  although  in  a  measure  relieved,  still  cherished 
suspicions  of  German  theology  which  the  mention  of  Krum- 
macher had  failed  to  remove.  She  would  give  her  son  a  direct 
warning  on  the  subject.  So,  when  he  came  into  her  room  that 
evening,  she  said : 

"  Mr.  Simon  has  been  making  some  friendly  inquiries  about 
you,  Thomas.  He  was  in  the  neighborhood,  and  thought  he 
might  call  on  Mr.  Moloch — what  a  dreadful  name  !  Why  have 
you  nothing  to  say  to  me  about  your  studies  ?  Mr.  Simon 
says  you  are  getting  quite  a  scholar  in  German.  But  it  is  a 
dangerous  language,  Thomas,  and  full  of  errors.  Beware  of 
yielding  too  ready  an  ear  to  the  seductions  of  human  philos- 
ophy and  the  undermining  attacks  of  will- worship." 


Mother  ana  Daughter.  77 

Mrs.  Worboise  went  on  in  this  strain,  intelligible  neither  to 
herself  nor  her  son,  seeing  she  had  not  more  than  the  vaguest 
notion  of  what  she  meant  by  German  theology,  for  at  least 
five  minutes,  during  which  Thomas  did  not  interrupt  her 
once.  By  allowing  the  lies  of  his  German  master  to  pass  thus 
uncontradicted,  he  took  another  long  stride  down  the  inclined 
plane  of  deceit. 

After  this  he  became  naturally  more  familiar  with  Mr. 
Molken.  The  German  abandoned  books,  and  began  to  teach 
him  fencing,  in  which  he  was  an  adept,  talking  to  him  in  Ger- 
man all  the  while,  and  thus  certainly  increasing  his  knowledge 
of  the  language,  though  not  in  a  direction  that  was  likely 
within  fifty  years  to  lead  him  to  the  mastery  of  commercial 
correspondence  in  that  tongue. 


CHAPTEE  X. 

MOTHER  AND   DAUGHTER. 

Mr.  Boxall,  with  some  difficulty,  arising  from  reluctance, 
made  his  wife  acquainted  with  the  annoyance  occasioned  him 
by  the  discovery  of  the  fact  that  Tom  Worboise  had  not  even 
told  his  father  that  Mary  was  ill. 

"I'm  convinced,"  he  said,  "that  the  young  rascal  has  only 
been  amusing  himself — flirting,  I  believe,  you  women  call  it." 

"I'm  none  so  sure  of  that,  Eichard,"  answered  his  wife. 
"You  leave  him  to  me." 

"Now,  my  dear,  I  won't  have  you  throwing  our  Mary  in 
any  fool's  face.  It's  bad  enough  as  it  is.  But  I  declare  I 
would  rather  see  her  in  her  grave  than  scorned  by  any  man." 

"You  may  see  her  there  without  before  long,"  answered  his 
wife,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Eh  !    What !     She's  not  worse,  is  she  ?  " 

"  No  ;  but  she  hasn't  much  life  left  in  her.  I'm  afraid  it's 
settling  on  her  lungs.  Her  cough  is  something  dreadful  to 
hear,  and  tears  her  to  pieces." 

"  It's  milder  weather,  though,  now,  and  that  will  make  a 
difference  before  long.  Now,  I  know  what  you're  thinking 
of,  my  dear,  and  I  won't  have  it.  I  told  the  fellow  she  wasn't 
fit  to  see  anybody." 


78  Guild  Court. 

"  Were  you  always  ready  to  talk  about  me  to  everyone  that 
came  in  your  way,  Kichard  ? "  asked  his  wife,  with  a  good- 
humored  smile. 

"I  don't  call  a  lad's  father  and  mother  any  one  that  comes 
in  the  way — though,  I  dare  say,  fathers  and  mothers  are  in 
the  way  sometimes,"  he  added,  with  a  slight  sigh. 

"Would  you  have  talked  about  me  to  your  own  father, 
Richard?" 

"Well,  you  see,  I  wasn't  in  his  neighborhood.  But  my 
father  was  a — a — stiff  kind  of  man  to  deal  with." 

"Not  worse  than  Mr.  Worboise,  depend  upon  it,  my  dear." 

' '  But  Worboise  would  like  well  enough  to  have  our  Mary 
for  a  daughter-in-law." 

"  I  dare  say.  But  that  mightn't  make  it  easier  to  talk  to 
him  about  her — for  Tom,  I  mean.  For  my  part,  I  never 
did  see  two  such  parents  as  poor  Tom  has  got.  I  declare 
it's  quite  a  shame  to  sit  upon  that  handsome  young  lad — and 
amiable — as  they  do.  He  can  hardly  call  his  nose  his  own. 
I  wouldn't  trust  that  Mr.  Worboise,  for  my  part,  no,  not  if 
I  was  drowning." 

"Why,  wife!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Boxall,  both  surprised  and 
annoyed,  "this  is  something  new.     How  long — " 

But  his  wife  went  on,  regardless. 

"And  that  mother  of  his  !  It's  a  queer  kind  of  religion  that 
■freezes  the  life  out  of  you  the  moment  you  come  near  her. 
How  ever  a  young  fellow  could  talk  about  his  sweetheart  to 
either  of  them  is  more  than  I  can  understand — or  you  either, 
my  dear.     So  don't  look  so  righteous  over  it." 

Mrs.  Boxall's  good-natured  audacity  generally  carried  every- 
thing before  it,  even  with  more  dangerous  persons  than  her 
own  husband.  He  could  not  help — I  do  not  say  smiling,  but 
trying  to  smile ;  and  though  the  smile  was  rather  a  failure, 
Mrs.  Boxall  chose  to  take  it  for  one.  Indeed,  she  generally 
put  lier  husband  into  good  humor  by  treating  him  as  if  he 
were  in  a  far  better  humor  than  he  really  was  in.  It  never 
does  any  good  to  tell  a  man  that  he  is  cross.  If  he  is,  it 
makes  him  no  better,  even  though  it  should  make  him  vexed 
with  himself  ;  and  if  he  isn't  cross,  nothing  is  more  certain  to 
make  him  cross,  without  giving  him  a  moment's  time  to  con- 
sult the  better  part  of  him. 

Within  the  next  eight  days,  Mrs.  Boxall  wrote  -to  Tom  as 
follows : 

"My  Dear  Me.  Thomas — Mary  is  much  better,  and  you 


Mother  and  Daughter.  79 

need  not  be  at  all  uneasy  about  the  consequences  of  your  expe- 
dition to  the  North  Pole  on  Christmas  Day.  I  am  very  sorry 
I  was  so  cross  when  you  brought  her  home.  Indeed,  I  believe 
I  ought  to  beg  your  pardon.  If  you  don't  come  and  see  us 
soon,  I  shall  fancy  that  I  have  seriously  offended  you.  But  I 
knew  she  never  could  stand  exposure  to  the  weather,  and  I 
suppose  that  was  what  upset  my  temper.  Mary  will  be  pleased 
to  see  you. — I  am,  ever  yours  sincerely,        Jane  Boxall." 

Tom  received  this  letter  before  he  left  for  town  in  the 
morning.  What  was  he  to  do  ?  Of  course  he  must  go  and 
call  there,  as  he  styled  it,  but  he  pronounced  it  a  great  bore. 
He  was  glad  the  poor  girl  was  better  ;  but  he  couldn't  help  it, 
and  he  had  no  fancy  for  being  hunted  up  after  that  fashion. 
What  made  him  yet  more  savage  was,  that  Mr.  Boxall  was 
absolutely  surly — he  had  never  seen  him  so  before — when  he 
went  into  his  room  upon  some  message  from  Mr.  Stopper.  He 
did  not  go  that  day  nor  the  next. 

On  the  third  evening  he  went ; — but  the  embarrassment  of 
feeling  that  he  ought  to  have  gone  before  was  added  to  the  dis- 
like of  going  at  all,  and  he  was  in  no  enviable  condition  of 
mind  when  he  got  off  the  Clapton  omnibus.  Add  to  this  that 
an  unrelenting  east  wind  was  blowing,  and  my  reader  will 
believe  that  Tom  Worboise  was  more  like  a  man  going  to  the 
scaffold  than  one  going  to  visit  a  convalescent  girl. 

There  was  something  soothing,  however,  in  the  glow  of 
warmth  and  comfort  which  the  opening  door  revealed.  The 
large  hall,  carpeted  throughout,  the  stove  burning  in  it  most 
benevolently,  the  brightness  of  the  thick  stair-rods,  like  veins 
of  gold  in  the  broad  crimson  carpeting  of  the  generously  wide 
stair-case — all  was  consoling  to  Thomas,  whose  home  was  one 
of  the  new  straight-up-and-down,  stucco-faced  abominations 
which  can  never  be  home-like  except  to  those  who  have  been 
born  in  them — and  no  thanks  to  them,  for  in  that  case  a 
rabbit-hutch  will  be  home-like.  Mrs.  Boxall  was  one  of  those 
nice,  stout,  kindly,  middle-aged  women  who  have  a  positive 
genius  for  comfort.  Now  there  is  no  genius  in  liking  to  be 
comfortable  ;  but  there  is  some  genius  in  making  yourself  com- 
fortable, and  a  great  deal  more  in  making  other  people  comfort- 
able. This  Mrs.  Boxall  possessed  in  perfection  ;  and  you  felt 
it  the  moment  you  entered  her  house,  which,  like  her  person, 
summer  and  winter,  was  full  of  a  certain  autumnal  richness — 
the  bloom  of  peaches  and  winter  apples.  And  what  was 
remarkable  was,  that  all  this  was  gained  without  a  breath  of 


80  Guild  Court 

scolding  to  the  maids.  She  would  ring  the  bell  ten  times  an 
hour  for  the  same  maid,  if  necessary.  She  would  ring  at 
once,  no  matter  how  slight  the  fault; — a  scrap  of  paper, 
a  cornerful  of  dust,  a  roll  of  flue  upon  that  same  stair-carpet — 
but  not  even  what  might  make  an  indulgent  mistress  savage — 
a  used  lucifer  match — would  upset  the  temper  of  Mrs.  Box- 
all.  "Why  do  I  linger  on  these  trifles,  do  you  ask,  reader  ? 
Because  I  shall  have  to  part  with  Mrs.  Boxall  soon ;  and — 
shall  I  confess  it  ? — because  it  gives  me  a  chance  of  reading  a 
sly  lecture  to  certain  ladies  whom  I  know,  but  who  cannot 
complain  when  I  weave  it  into  a  history.  My  only  trouble 
about  Mrs.  Boxall  is,  to  think  in  what  condition  she  must 
have  found  herself  when  she  was  no  longer  in  the  midst  of 
any  of  the  circumstances  of  life — had  neither  house  nor  clothes, 
nor  even  the  body  she  had  been  used  to  dress  with  such  ma- 
tronly taste,  to  Took  after. 

It  was  with  a  certain  tremor  that  Tom  approached  the  door 
of  Mary  Boxall's  room.  But  he  had  not  time  to  indulge  it,  as 
I  fear  he  might  have  done  if  he  had  had  time,  for,  as  I  have 
said,  he  prized  feelings,  and  had  not  begun  even  to  think 
about  actions. 

What  a  change  from  the  Mary  of  the  snow-storm  !  She  lay 
on  a  couch  near  the  fire,  pale  and  delicate,  with  thin  white 
hands,  and  altogether  an  altered  expression  of  being.  But 
her  appearance  of  health  had  always  been  somewhat  boastful. 
Thomas  felt  that  she  was  far  lovelier  than  before,  and  ap- 
proached her  with  some  emotion.  But  Mary's  illness  had 
sharpened  her  perceptions.  There  was  no  light  in  the  room 
but  that  of  the  fire,  and  it  lightened  and  gloomed  over  her  still 
face,  as  the  clouds  and  the  sun  do  over  a  landscape.  As  the 
waters  shine  out  and  darken  again  in  the  hollows,  so  her  eyes 
gleamed  and  vanished,  and  in  the  shadow  Thomas  could  not 
tell  whether  she  was  looking  at  him  or  not.  But  then  Mary 
was  reading  his  face  like  a  book  in  a  hard  language,  which  yet 
she  understood  enough  to  read  it.  Very  little  was  said  between 
them,  for  Mary  was  sad  and  weak,  and  Thomas  was  sorrowful 
and  perplexed.  She  had  been  reckoning  on  this  first  visit 
from  Thomas  ever  since  she  had  recovered  enough  to  choose 
what  she  would  think  about ;  and  now  it  was  turning  out  all 
so  different  from  what  she  had  pictured  to  herself.  Her  poor 
heart  sank  away  somewhere,  and  left  a  hollow  place  where  it 
had  used  to  be.  Thomas  sat  there,  but  there  was  a  chasm 
between  them,  not  such  as  she  any  longer  sought  to  cross,  but 
which  she  would  have  wider  still.     She  wished  he  would  go. 


Mother  and  Daughter.  81 

A  few  more  commonplaces  across  the  glimmering  fire,  and  it 
sank,  as  if  sympathetic,  into  a  sullen  gloom,  and  the  face  of 
neither  was  visible  to  the  other.  Then  Thomas  rose  with  the 
effort  of  one  in  a  nightmare  dream.  Mary  held  out  her  hand 
to  him.  He  took  it  in  his,  cold  to  the  heart.  The  fire  gave 
out  one  flame  which  flickered  and  died.  In  that  light  she 
looked  at  him — was  it  reproachfully  ?  He  thought  so,  and  felt 
that  her  eyes  were  like  those  of  one  trying  to  see  something  at 
a  great  distance.  One  pressure  of  her  hand,  and  he  left  her. 
He  would  gladly  have  shrunk  into  a  nutshell.  "Good-by, 
Thomas,"  "  G-ood-by,  Mary,"  were  the  last  words  that  passed 
between  them. 

Outside  the  room  he  found  Mrs.  Boxall. 

"  Are  you  going  already,  Mr.  Thomas  ?  "  she  said,  in  an  un- 
certain kind  of  tone. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Boxall,"  was  all  Tom  had  to  reply  with. 

Mrs.  Boxall  went  into  her  daughter's  room,  and  shut  the 
door.     Thomas  let  himself  out,  and  walked  away. 

She  found  Mary  lying  staring  at  the  fire,  with  great  dry  eyes, 
lips  pressed  close  together,  and  face  even  whiter  than  before. 

"  My  darling  child  ! "  said  the  mother. 

"It's  no  matter,  mother.  It's  all  my  own  foolish  fault. 
Only  bed  again  will  be  so  dreary  now." 

The  mother  made  some  gesture,  which  the  daughter  under- 
stood. 

"  No,  mother  ;  don't  say  a  word.  I  won't  hear  a  word  of 
that  kind.  I'm  a  good  deal  wiser  already  than  I  used  to  be. 
H  I  get  better,  I  shall  live  for  you  and  papa." 

A  dreadful  fit  of  coughing  interrupted  her. 

"  Don't  fancy  I'm  going  to  die  for  love,"  she  said,  with  a 
faint  attempt  at  a  smile.  "I'm  not  one  of  that  sort.  If  I 
die,  it'll  be  of  a  good  honest  cough,  that's  all.  Dear  mother, 
it's  nothing,  I  declare." 

Thomas  never  more  crossed  that  threshold.  And  ever  after, 
Mr.  Boxall  spoke  to  him  as  a  paid  clerk,  and  nothing  more. 
So  he  had  to  carry  some  humiliation  about  with  him.  Mr. 
Stopper  either  knew  something  of  the  matter,  or  followed  the 
tone  of  liis  principal.  Even  Charles  Wither  was  short  with 
him  after  awhile.  I  suppose  Jane  told  him  that  he  had  be- 
haved very  badly  to  Mary.  So  Tom  had  no  friend  left  but  Lucy, 
and  was  driven  nearer  to  Mr.  Molken.  He  still  contrived  to 
keep  his  visits  at  Guild  Court,  except  those  to  Mr.  Molken,  a 
secret  at  home.  But  I  think  Mr.  Stopper  had  begun  to  sus- 
pect, if  not  to  find  him  out. 

6 


82  Guild  Court. 

I  have  not  done  with  the  Boxalls  yet,  though  there  is  hence- 
forth an  impassable  gulf  between  Tom  and  them. 

As  the  spring  drew  on,  Mary  grew  a  little  better.  With  the 
first  roses,  Uncle  John  Boxall  came  home  from  the  Chinese 
Sea,  and  took  up  his  residence  for  six  weeks  or  so  with  his 
brother.  Mary  was  fond  of  Uncle  John,  and  his  appearance 
at  this  time  was  very  opportune.  A  more  rapid  improvement 
was  visible  within  a  few  days  of  his  arrival.  He  gave  himself 
up  almost  to  the  invalid  ;  and  as  she  was  already  getting  over 
her  fancy  for  Tom,  her  love  for  her  uncle  came  in  to  aid  her 
recovery. 

"It's  the  smell  of  the  salt  water,"  said  he,  when  they  re- 
marked how  much  good  he  had  done  her ;  "  and  more  of  it 
would  do  her  more  good  yet." 

They  thought  it  better  not  to  tell  him  anything  about  Tom. 
But  one  day  after  dinner,  in  a  gush  of  old  feelings,  brought  on 
by  a  succession  of  reminiscences  of  their  childhood,  Eichard 
told  John  all  about  it,  which  was  not  much.  John  sWore,  and 
kept  pondering  the  matter  over. 


CHAPTEK  XL 

MATTIE    FOE    POPPIE. 

One  bright  morning,  when  the  flags  in  the  passage  were 
hot  to  her  feet,  and  the  shoes  she  had  lost  in  the  snow-storm 
had  not  the  smallest  chance  of  recurring  to  the  memory  of 
Poppie,  in  this  life  at  least,  Mattie  was  seated  with  Mr.  Spelt 
in  his  workshop,  which  seemed  to  the  passer-by  to  be  sup- 
ported, like  the  roof  of  a  chapter-house,  upon  the  single  pillar 
of  Mr.  Dolman,  with  his  head  for  a  capital — which  did  not, 
however,  branch  out  in  a  great  many  directions.  She  was  not 
dressing  a  doll  now,  for  Lucy  had  set  her  to  work  upon  some 
garments  for  the  poor,  Lucy's  relation  with  whom  I  will  ex- 
plain by  and  by. 

"I've  been  thinking,  mother,"  she  said — to  Mr.  Spelt,  of 
course — "  that  I  wonder  how  ever  G-od  made  me.  Did  he  cut 
me  out  of  something  else,  and  join  me  up,  do  you  think  ?  If 
he  did,  where  did  he  get  the  stuff  ?  And'  if  he  didn't,  how 
did  he  do  it?" 


Mattie  for  Popple.  83 

"  Well,  my  dear,  it  would  puzzle  a  wiser  head  than  mine  to 
answer  that  question,"  said  Mr.  Spelt,  who  plainly  judged 
ignorance  a  safer  refuge  from  Mattie  than  any  knowledge  he 
possessed  upon  the  subject.  Her  question,  however,  occa- 
sioned the  return,  somehow  or  other,  of  an  old  suspicion  which 
he  had  not  by  any  means  cherished,  but  which  would  force 
itself  upon  him  now  and  then,  that  the  splendid  woman,  Mrs. 
Spelt,  "had  once  ought"  to  have  had  a  baby,  and,  somehow, 
he  never  knew  what  had  come  of  it.  She  got  all  right  again, 
and  the  baby  was  nowhere. 

"  I  wish  I  had  thought  to  watch  while  God  was  a-making  of 
me,  and  then  I  should  have  remembered  how  he  did  it,"  Mat- 
tie  resumed.  "Ah  !  but  I  couldn't,"  she  added,  checking 
herself,  "for  I  wasn't  made  till  I  was  finished,  and  so  I 
couldn't  remember." 

This  was  rather  too  profound  for  Mr.  Spelt  to  respond  to  in 
any  way.  Not  that  he  had  not  a  glimmering  of  Mattie's 
meaning,  but  that  is  a  very  different  thing  from  knowing  what 
to  answer.  So  he  said  nothing,  except  what  something  might 
be  comprised  in  a  bare  assent.  Mattie,  however,  seemed  bent 
on  forcing  conversation,  and,  finding  him  silent,  presently 
tried  another  vein. 

"Do  you  remember  a  conversation  we  had,  in  this  very 
place" — that  was  not  wonderful,  anyhow — "  some  time  ago — ■ 
before  my  last  birthday — about  God  being  kinder  to  some  peo- 
ple than  to  other  people  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  answered  Mr.  Spelt,  who  had  been  thinking 
about  the  matter  a  good  deal  since.  Are  you  of  the  same  mind 
still,  Mattie?" 

"  Well,  yes,  and  no,"  answered  Mattie.  I  think  now  there 
may  be  something  in  it  I  can't  quite  get  at  the  bottom  of.  Do 
you  know,  mother,  I  remembered  all  at  once,  the  other  day, 
that  when  I  was  a  little  girl,  I  used  to  envy  Poppie.  Now, 
where  ever  was  there  a  child  that  had  more  of  the  blessings  of 
childhood  than  me  ?  " 

"  What  made  you  envy  Poppie,  then,  Mattie  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  see,  my  father's  shop  was  rather  an  awful  place, 
sometimes.  I  never  told  you,  mother,  what  gained  me  the 
pleasure  of  your  acquaintance.  Ever  since  I  can  remember — 
and  that  is  a  very  long  time  ago  now — I  used  now  and  then  to 
grow  frightened  at  father's  books.  Sometimes,  you  know, 
they  were  all  quiet  enough.  You  would  generally  expect 
books  to  be  quiet,  now  wouldn't  you  ?  But  other  times — well, 
they  wouldn't  be  quiet.     At  least,  they  kept  thinking  all  about 


84  Guild  Court. 

me,  till  my  poor  head  couldn't  bear  it  any  longer.  That  al- 
ways was  my  weak  point,  you  know." 

Mr.  Spelt  looked  with  some  anxiety  at  the  pale  face  and 
great  forehead  of  the  old  little  woman,  and  said  : 

"  Yes,  yes,  Mattie.  But  we've  got  over  ail  that,  I  think, 
pretty  well  by  now." 

"  Well,  do  you  know,  Mr.  Spelt,  I  have  not  even  yet  got 
over  my  fancies  about  the  books.  Very  often,  as  I  am  falling 
asleep,  1  hear  them  all  thinking ; — they  can  hardly  help  it, 
you  know,  with  so  much  to  think  about  inside  them.  I  don't 
hear  them  exactly,  you  know,  for  the  one  thinks  into  the 
other's  thinks — somehow,  I  can't  tell — and  they  blot  each 
other  out  like,  and  there  is  nothing  but  a  confused  kind  of  a 
jumble  in  my  head  till  I  fall  asleep.  Well,  it  was  one  day, 
very  like  this  day — it  was  a  hot  summer  forenoon,  wasn't  it, 
mother  ? — I  was  standing  at  that  window  over  there.  And 
Poppie  was  playing  down  in  the  court.  And  I  thought  what 
a  happy  little  girl  she  was,  to  go  where  she  pleased  in  the  sun- 
shine, and  not  need  to  put  on  any  shoes.  Father  wouldn't  let 
me  go  where  I  liked.  And  there  was  nothing  but  books  every- 
where. That  was  my  nursery  then.  It  was  all  round  with 
books.  And  some  of  them  had  dreadful  pictures  in  them. 
All  at  once  the  books  began  talking  so  loud  as  I  had  never 
heard  them  talk  before.  And  I  thought  with  myself — 'I 
won't  stand  this  any  longer.     I  will  go  away  with  Poppie.' 

"Sol  ran  down  stairs,  but  because  I  couldn't  open  the  door 
into  the  court,  I  had  to  watch  and  dodge  father  among  the 
book-shelves.  And  when  I  got  out,  Poppie  was  gone — and 
then,  what  next,  mother  ?" 

"  Then  my  thread  knotted,  and  that  always  puts  me  out  of 
temper,  because  it  stops  my  work.  And  I  always  look  down 
into  the  court  when  I  stop.  Somehow  that's  the  way  my  eyes 
do  of  themselves.  And  there  I  saw  a  tiny  little  maiden  star- 
ing all  about  her  as  if  she  had  lost  somebody,  and  her  face 
looked  as  if  she  was  just  going  to  cry.  And  I  knew  who  she 
was,  for  I  had  seen  her  in  the  shop  before.  And  so  I  called 
to  her  and  she  came.     And  I  asked  her  what  was  the  matter." 

"Well,  and  I  said,  'It's  the  books  that  will  keep  talking  :' 
didn't  I?" 

"  Yes.  And  I  took  you  up  beside  me.  But  you  was  very 
ill  after  that,  and  it  was  long  before  you  came  back  again  after 
that  first  time." 

This  story  had  been  gone  over  and  over  again  between  the 
pair  ;  but  every  time  that  Mattie  wanted  to  rehearse  the  one 


Mattie  for  Poppie.  85 

adventure  of  her  life,  she  treated  it  as  a  memory  that  had  just 
returned  upon  her.  How  much  of  it  was  an  original  impres- 
sion and  how  much  a  rewriting  by  the  tailor  upon  the  blotted 
tablets  of  her  memory,  I  cannot  tell. 

"  Well,  where  was  I  ?  "  said  Mattie,  after  a  pause,  laying 
her  hands  on  her  lap  and  looking  up  at  the  tailor  with  eyes  of 
inquiry. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  Mattie,"  answered  Mr.  Spelt. 

"  I  was  thinking,  you  know,  that  perhaps  Poppie  has  her 
share  of  what's  going  on,  after  all. " 

"And  don't  you  think,"  suggested  her  friend,  "that  per- 
haps God  doesn't  want  to  keep  all  the  good-doing  to  himself, 
but  leaves  room  for  us  to  have  a  share  in  it  ?  It's  very  nice 
work  that  you're  at  now — isn't  it  Mattie  ?  " 

"Well,  it  is." 

"As  good  as  dressing  dolls  ?" 

"Well,  it's  no  end  of  better." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  the  dolls  don't  feel  a  bit  better  for  it,  you  know." 

"  And  them  that'll  wear  that  flannel  petticoat  will  feel  bet- 
ter for  it,  won't  they  ?  " 

"That  they  will,  /know." 

"  But  suppose  everybody  in  the  world  was  as  well  off  as  you 
and  me,  Mattie — you  with  your  good  father,  and — " 

"Well,  my  father  ain't  none  so  good,  just.  He  swears 
sometimes." 

"  He's  good  to  you,  though,  ain't  he  ?" 

"I  don't  know  tbat  either,  mother  :  he  spoils  me,"  answered 
Mattie,  who  seemed  to  be  in  a  more  than  usually  contradictory 
humor  this  morning. 

"  Supposing,  though,  that  everybody  had  a  father  that 
spoiled  them,  you  wouldn't  have  any  such  clothes  to  make,  you 
know." 

"  But  they  wouldn't  want  them." 

"  And  you  would  be  forced  to  go  back  to  your  dolls  as  have 
no  father  or  mother  and  come  across  the  sea  in  boxes." 

"  I  see,  I  see,  mother.  Well,  I  suppose  I  must  allow  that  it 
is  good  of  God  to  give  us  a  share  in  making  people  comfort- 
able. You  see  he  could  do  it  himself,  only  he  likes  to  give  us 
a  share.     That's  it,  ain't,  it  mother  ?  " 

"  That's  what  I  mean,  Mattie." 

"Well,  but  you'll  allow  it  does  seem  rather  hard  that  I 
should  have  this  to  do  now,  and  there's  Poppie  hasn't  either 
the  clothes  to  wear  or  to  make." 


86  Guild  Court 

"  Can't  you  do  something  for  Poppie,  then  ?  " 

"  Well,  I'll  think  about  it,  and  see  what  I  can  do." 

Here  Mattie  laid  aside  her  work,  crept  on  all  fours  to  the 
door,  and  peeped  over  into  the  passage  below. 

"  Well,  Poppie,"  she  began,  in  the  intellectually  condescend- 
ing tone  which  most  grown  people  use  to  children,  irritating 
some  of  them  by  it  considerably, — "  Well,  Poppie,  and  how  do 
you  do  ?  " 

Poppie  heard  the  voice,  and  looked  all  round,  but  not  seeing 
where  it  came  from,  turned  and  scudded  away  under  the  arch. 
Though  Mattie  knew  Poppie,  Poppie  did  not  know  Mattie,  did 
not  know  her  voice  at  least.  It  was  not  that  Poppie  was 
frightened  exactly — she  hardly  ever  was  frightened  at  any- 
thing, not  even  at  a  policeman,  but  she  was  given  to  scudding  ; 
and  when  anything  happened  she  did  not  precisely  know  what 
to  do  with,  she  scudded  ;  at  least  if  there  was  no  open  drain 
or  damaged  hoarding  at  hand.  But  she  did  not  run  far  this 
time.  As  soon  as  she  got  under  the  shelter  of  the  arch,  she 
turned  behind  a  sort  of  buttress  that  leaned  against  the  book- 
seller's house,  and  peeped  back  toward  the  court. 

At  that  moment  Lucy  came  out  of  the  house.  She  came 
down  the  passage,  and  as  Mattie  was  still  leaning  over  the 
door,  or  the  threshold,  rather,  of  the  workshop,  she  saw  her, 
and  stopped.  Thereupon  Poppie  came  out  of  her  "coign  of 
vantage,"  and  slowly  approached,  just  like  a  bird  or  a  tame 
rabbit— only  she  was  not  by  any  means  so  tame  as  the  latter. 

"Are  you  getting  on  with  that  petticoat,  Mattie  ?  "  said  Lucy. 

"  Yes,  miss,  I  am.  Only  not  being  used  to  anything  but 
boys'  clothes,  I  am  afraid  you  won't  like  the  tailor's  stitch,  miss." 

"Never  mind  that.  It  will  be  a  curiosity,  that's  all.  But 
what  do  you  think,  Mattie  ?  The  kind  lady  who  gives  us  this 
work  to  do  for  the  poor  people,  has  invited  all  of  us  to  go  and 
spend  a  day  with  her." 

Mattie  did  not  answer.  Lucy  thought  she  did  not  care  to 
go.  But  she  was  such  an  oddity  that  she  wanted  very  much  to 
take  her. 

"  She  has  such  a  beautiful  garden,  Mattie !  And  she's  so 
kind." 

Still  Mattie  made  no  reply.     Lucy  would  try  again. 

"  And  it's  such  a  beautiful  house,  too,  Mattie  !  I'm  sure 
you  would  like  to  see  it.  And,"  she  added,  almost  reduced  to 
her  last  resource,  "  she  would  give  us  such  a  nice  dinner,  / 
know  ! " 

This  at  length  burst  the  silence,  but  not  as  Lucy  had  expected. 


Mattie  for  Poppie.  87 

"  Now  that's  just  what  I'm  determined  I  will  not  stand," 
said  the  little  maid. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Mattie  ?  "  exclaimed  Lucy,  surprised 
and  bewildered. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I  mean,  and  that  soon  enough,"  said 
Mattie.  "  It's  all  very  kind  of  Mrs.  Morgingturn  to  ask  you 
and  me,  what  are  well-to-do  people,  and  in  comfortable  cir- 
cumstances, as  people  say,  to  go  and  spend  this  day  or  that 
with  her.  And  do  you  know,  Mr.  Spelt " — here  Mattie  drew 
herself  in  and  turned  her  face  right  round  from  Lucy  to  the 
tailor,  for  the  side  of  her  mouth  which  she  used  for  speech  was 
the  left,  and  the  furthest  from  Spelt; — "  it  just  comes  into  my 
head  that  this  kind  lady  who  gives  me  petticoats  to  make  in- 
stead of  doll's  trousers,  is  doing  the  very  thing  you  read  about 
last  night  out  of  the  New  Testament  before  I  went  into  bed. 
It's  so  nice  now  there's  light  enough  to  read  a  little  before  we 
part  for  the  night !  ain't  it,  mother  ?  " 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  said  the  tailor  in  a  low  voice,  not  wish- 
ing to  intrude  himself  into  the  conversation. 

"What  did  Mr.  Spelt  read  to  you,  Mattie  ?"  asked  Lucy. 

"  He  read  about  somebody — " 

It  was  very  remarkable  how  Mattie  would  use  the  name  of 
God,  never  certainly  with  irreverence,  but  with  a  freedom  that 
seemed  to  indicate  that  to  her  he  was  chiefly  if  not  solely  an 
object  of  metaphysical  speculation  or,  possibly,  of  investiga- 
tion ;  while  she  hardly  ever  uttered  the  name  of  the  Saviour, 
but  spoke  of  him  as  Somebody.  And  I  find  that  I  must  yet 
further  interrupt  the  child  herself  to  tell  an  anecdote  about 
her  which  will  perhaps  help  my  reader  to  account  for  the  fact 
I  am  about  to  finish  telling.  She  was  not  three  years  old 
when  she  asked  her  mother,  a  sweet,  thoughtful  woman,  in 
many  ways  superior  to  her  husband ,  though  not  intellectually 
his  equal — who  made  the  tree  in  Wood  Street  ?  Her  mother 
answered,  of  course,  "  God  made  it,  my  pet ;  "  for  by  instinct, 
she  never  spoke  of  her  God  without  using  some  term  of  en- 
dearment to  her  child.  Mattie  answered — "I  would  like  it 
better  if  a  man  made  it " — a  cry  after  the  humanity  of  God — 
a  longing  in  the  heart  of  the  three  years'  child  for  the  Messiah 
of  God.  Her  mother  did  not  know  well  enough  to  tell  her 
that  a  man,  yes,  the  man  did  make  them — "for  by  Him  all 
things  were  made  ; " — but  Mattie  may  have  had  some  unde- 
fined glimmering  of  the  fact,  for,  as  I  have  said,  she  always 
substituted  Somebody  for  any  name  of  the  Lord.  I  cannot 
help  wishing  that  certain  religious  people  of  my  acquaintance 


88  Guild  Court 

would,  I  do  not  say  follow  queer  little  Mattie's  example,  but 
take  a  lesson  from  queer  little  Mattie. 

"He  read  about  somebody  saying  you  shouldn't  ask  your 
friends  and  neighbors  who  could  do  the  same  for  you  again, 
but  you  should  ask  them  that  couldn't,  because  they  hadn't  a 
house  to  ask  you  to,  like  Poppie  there." 

Lucy  looked  round  and  saw  the  most  tattered  little  scare- 
crow— useless  even  as  such  in  the  streets  of  London,  where 
there  are  only  dusty  little  sparrows  and  an  occasional  raven — 
staring  at — I  cannot  call  it  a  group — well,  it  was  a  group  ver- 
tically, if  not  laterally — and  not  knowing  or  caring  what  to 
make  of  it,  only  to  look  at  Lucy,  and  satisfy  her  undefined  and 
undefinable  love  by  the  beholding  of  its  object.  She  loved 
what  was  lovely  without  in  the  least  knowing  that  it  was  lovely, 
or  what  lovely  meant.  And  while  Lucy  gazed  at  Poppie,  with 
a  vague  impression  that  she  had  seen  the  child  before,  she 
could  not  help  thinking  of  the  contrast  between  the  magnifi- 
cent abode  of  the  Morgensterns — for  magnificent  it  was,  even 
in  London — and  the  lip  of  the  nest  from  which  the  strange 
child  preached  down  into  the  world  the  words  "  friends  and 
neighbors." 

But  she  could  say  nothing  more  to  Mattie  till  she  had  told, 
word  for  word,  the  whole  story  to  Mrs.  Morgenstern,  who, 
she  knew,  would  heartily  enjoy  the  humor  of  it.  Nor  was 
Lucy,  who  loved  her  Lord  very  truly,  even  more  than  she 
knew,  though  she  was  no  theologian  like  Thomas,  in  the  least 
deterred  from  speaking  of  Somebody,  by  the  fact  that  Mrs. 
Morgenstern  did  not  receive  him  as  the  Messiah  of  her  nation. 
If  he  did  not  hesitate  to  show  himself  where  he  knew  he  would 
not  be  accepted,  why  should  she  hesitate  to  speak  his  name? 
And  why  should  his  name  not  be  mentioned  to  those  who,  al- 
though they  had  often  been  persecuted  in  his  name  by  those 
who  did  not  understand  his  mind,  might  well  be  proud  that 
the  man  who  was  conquering  the  world  by  his  strong,  beauti- 
ful will,  was  a  Jew. 

But  from  tbe  rather  severe  indisposition  of  her  grandmother, 
she  was  unable  to  tell  the  story  to  Mrs.  Morgenstern  till  the 
very  morning  of  the  gathering. 


A  Comparison.  89 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A  COMPAEISOST. 

Can  I  hope  to  move  my  readers  to  any  pitiful  sympathy 
with  Mrs.  Worboise,  the  whole  fabric  of  whose  desires  was  thus 
gliding  into  an  abyss  ?  That  she  is  not  an  interesting  woman, 
I  admit ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  I  venture  to  express  a  doubt 
whether  our  use  of  the  word  uninteresting  really  expresses 
anything  more  than  our  own  ignorance.  If  we  could  look  into 
the  movements  of  any  heart,  I  doubt  very  much  whether  that 
heart  would  be  any  longer  uninteresting  to  us.  Come  with 
me,  reader,  while  I  endeavor,  with  some  misgiving,  I  confess, 
to  open  a  peep  into  the  heart  of  this  mother,  which  I  have 
tried  hard,  though  with  scarcely  satisfactory  success,  to  under- 
stand. 

Her  chief  faculty  lay  in  negations.  Her  whole  life  was  a 
kind  of  negation — a  negation  of  warmth,  a  negation  of  impulse, 
a  negation  of  beauty,  a  negation  of  health.  "When  Thomas 
was  a  child,  her  chief  communication  with  him  was  in  nega- 
tives. "You  must  not;  you  are  not ;  do  not;"  and  so  on. 
Her  theory  of  the  world  was  humanity  deprived  of  God. 
Because  of  something  awful  in  the  past,  something  awful  lay 
in  the  future.  To  escape  from  the  consequences  of  a  condition 
which  you  could  not  help,  you  must  believe  certain  things  after 
a  certain  fashion — hold,  in  fact,  certain  theories  with  regard 
to  the  most  difficult  questions,  on  which,  too,  you  were  incapa- 
ble of  thinking  correctly.  Him  who  held  these  theories  you 
must  regard  as  a  fellow-favorite  of  heaven ;  who  held  them  not 
you  would  do  well  to  regard  as  a  publican  and  a  sinner,  even  if 
he  should  be  the  husband  in  your  bosom.  All  the  present  had 
value  only  of  reference  to  the  future.  All  your  strife  must  be 
to  become  something  you  are  not  at  all  now,  to  feel  what  you 
do  not  feel,  to  judge  against  your  nature,  to  regard  everything 
in  you  as  opposed  to  your  salvation,  and  God,  who  is  far  away 
from  you,  and  whose  ear  is  not  always  ready  to  hear,  as  your 
only  deliverer  from  the  consequences  he  has  decreed ;  and  this 
in  virtue  of  no  immediate  relation  to  you,  but  from  regard  to 
another  whose  innocent  suffering  is  to  our  guilt  the  only 
counterpoise  weighty  enough  to  satisfy  his  justice.  All  her 
anxiety  for  her  son  turned  upon  his  final  escape  from  punish- 
ment. She  did  not  torment  her  soul,  her  nights  were  not 
sleepless  with  the  fear  that  her  boy  should  be  unlike  Christ, 


90  Guild  Court. 

that  he  might  do  that  which  was  mean,  selfish,  dishonest, 
cowardly,  vile,  but  with  the  fear  that  he  was  or  might  be 
doomed  to  an  eternal  suffering. 

Now,  in  so  far  as  this  idea  had  laid  hold  of  the  boy,  it  had 
aroused  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  mingled  with  a  repel- 
lent feeling  in  regard  to  God.  All  that  was  poor  and  common 
and  selfish  in  him  was  stirred  up  on  the  side  of  religion ;  all 
that  was  noble  (and  of  that  there  was  far  more  than  my  reader 
will  yet  fancy)  was  stirred  up  against  it.  The  latter,  however, 
was  put  down  by  degrees,  leaving  the  whole  region,  when  the 
far  outlook  of  selfishness  should  be  dimmed  by  the  near  urgings 
of  impulse,  open  to  the  inroads  of  the  enemy,  enfeebled  and 
ungarrisoned.  Ah  !  if  she  could  have  told  the  boy,  every  time 
his  soul  was  lifted  up  within  him  by  anything  beautiful,  or 
great,  or  true,  "  That,  my  boy,  is  God — God  telling  you  that 
you  must  be  beautiful,  and  great,  and  true,  else  you  cannot  be 
His  child  ! "  If,  every  time  he  uttered  his  delight  in  flower  or 
bird,  she  had,  instead  of  speaking  of  sin  and  shortcoming, 
spoken  of  love  and  aspiration  toward  the  Father  of  Light,  the 
God  of  Beauty  !  If  she  had  been  able  to  show  him  that  what 
he  admired  in  Byron's  heroes,  even,  was  the  truth,  courage, 
and  honesty,  hideously  mingled,  as  it  might  be,  with  cruelty 
and  conceit  and  lies  !  But  almost  everything  except  the  Epis- 
tles seemed  to  her  of  the  devil  and  not  of  God.  She  was  even 
jealous  of  the  Gospel  of  God,  lest  it  should  lead  him  astray 
from  the  interpretation  she  put  upon  it.  She  did  not  under- 
stand that  nothing  can  convince  of  sin  but  the  vision  of  holi- 
ness ;  that  to  draw  near  to  the  Father  is  to  leave  self  behind  ; 
that  the  Son  of  God  appeared  that  by  the  sight  of  himself  he 
might  convince  the  world  of  sin.  But  then  hers  was  a  life 
that  had  never  broken  the  shell,  while  through  the  shell  the 
worm  of  suffering  had  eaten,  and  was  boring  into  her  soul. 
Have  pity  and  not  contempt,  reader,  who  would  not  be  like  her. 
She  did  not  believe  in  her  own  love,  even,  as  from  God,  and 
therefore  she  restrained  it  before  the  lad.  So  he  had  no  idea 
of  how  she  loved  him.  If  she  had  only  thrown  her  arms  about 
him,  and  let  her  heart  out  toward  him,  which  surely  it  is  right 
to  do  sometimes  at  least,  how  differently  would  he  have  list- 
ened to  what  she  had  to  say  !  His  heart  was  being  withered 
on  the  side  next  his  mother  for  lack  of  nourishment :  there 
are  many  lives  rained  because  they  have  not  had  tenderness 
enough.  Kindness  is  not  tenderness.  She  could  not  repre- 
sent God  to  the  lad.  If,  instead  of  constantly  referring  to  the 
hell  that  lies  in  the  future,  she  had  reminded  him  of  the  begin- 


A  Comparison.  91 

nings  of  that  hell  in  his  own  bosom,  appealing  to  himself 
whether  there  was  not  a  faintness  there  that  indicated  some- 
thing wrong,  a  dull  pain  that  might  grow  to  a  burning  agony, 
a  consciousness  of  wrong-doing,  thinking,  and  feeling,  a  sense 
of  a  fearful  pit  and  a  miry  clay  within  his  own  being  from 
which  he  would  gladly  escape,  a  failing  even  from  the  great- 
ness of  such  grotesque  ideals  as  he  loved  in  poetry,  a  meanness, 
paltriness,  and  at  best  insignificance  of  motive  and  action, — ■ 
and  then  told  him  that  out  of  this  was  God  stretching  forth 
the  hand  to  take  and  lift  him,  that  he  was  waiting  to  exalt  him 
to  a  higher  ideal  of  manhood  than  anything  which  it  had 
entered  into  his  heart  to  conceive,  that  he  would  make  him 
clean  from  the  defilement  which  he  was  afraid  to  confess  to 
himself  because  it  lowered  him  in  his  own  esteem, — then  per- 
haps the  words  of  his  mother,  convincing  him  that  God  was 
not  against  him  but  for  him,  on  the  side  of  his  best  feelings 
and  against  his  worst,  might  have  sunk  into  the  heart  of  the 
weak  youth,  and  he  would  straightway  have  put  forth  what 
strength  he  had,  and  so  begun  to  be  strong.  For  he  who  acts 
has  strength,  is  strong,  and  will  be  stronger.  But  she  could 
not  tell  him  this  :  she  did  not  know  it  herself.  Her  religion 
was  something  there,  then ;  not  here,  now.  She  would  give 
Mr.  Simon  a  five-pound  note  for  his  Scripture-reading  among 
the  poor,  and  the  moment  after  refuse  the  request  of  her 
needle-woman  from  the  same  district  who  begged  her  to  raise 
her  wages  from  eighteen  pence  to  two  shillings  a  day.  Eelig- 
ion — the  bond  between  man  and  God — had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  earnings  of  a  sister,  whose  pale  face  told  of  "penury  and 
pine  "  a  sadder  story  even  than  that  written  upon  the  counte- 
nance of  the  invalid,  for  to  labor  in  weakness,  longing  for  rest, 
is  harder  than  to  endure  a  good  deal  of  pain  upon  a  sofa. 
Until  we  begin  to  learn  that  the  only  way  to  serve  God  in  any 
real  sense  of  the  word  is  to  serve  our  neighbor,  we  may  have 
knocked  at  the  wicket-gate,  but  I  doubt  if  we  have  got  one 
foot  across  the  threshold  of  the  kingdom. 

Add  to  this  condition  of  mind  a  certain  uncomfortable  effect 
produced  upon  the  mother  by  the  son's  constantly  reminding 
her  of  the  father  whom  she  had  quite  given  up  trying  to  love, 
and  I  think  my  reader  will  be  a  little  nearer  to  the  understand- 
ing of  the  relation,  if  such  it  could  well  be  called,  between  the 
two.  The  eyes  of  both  were  yet  unopened  to  the  poverty  of 
their  own  condition.  The  mother  especially  said  that  she  was 
"rich,  and  had  need  of  nothing,"  when  she  was  "wretched, 
and  miserable,  and  poor,  and  blind,  and  naked."  But  she 
7 


92  Guild  Court 

had  a  hard  nature  to  begin  with,  and  her  pain  occupied  her  all 
the  more  that  she  neither  sought  nor  accepted  sympathy.  And 
although  she  was  none  the  less  a  time-server  and  a  worldly- 
minded  woman  that  she  decried  worldliness  and  popery,  and 
gave  herself  to  the  saving  of  her  soul,  yet  the  G-od  who  makes 
them  loves  even  such  people  and  knows  all  about  them ;  and  it 
is  well  for  them  that  he  is  their  judge  and  not  we. 

Let  us  now  turn  to  another  woman — Mrs.  Morgenstern.  I 
will  tell  you  what  she  was  like.  She  was  a  Jewess  and  like  a 
Jewess.  But  there  is  as  much  difference  between  Jewesses  as 
there  is  between  Englishwomen.  Is  there  any  justice  in  fix- 
ing upon  the  lowest  as  the  type  9  How  does  the  Scotchman  like 
to  have  his  nation  represented :  by  the  man  outside  the 
tobacco-shop,  or  by  the  cantankerous  logician  and  theologian 
so  well  known  to  some  of  us  ?  There  is  a  Jewess  that  flaunts 
in  gorgeous  raiment  and  unclean  linen  ;  and  there  is  a  Jewess 
noble  as  a  queen,  and  pure  as  a  daisy — fit  to  belong  to  that 
nation  of  which  Mary  the  mother  was  born.  Mrs.  Morgenstern 
was  of  the  latter  class — tall,  graceful,  even  majestic  in  the 
fashion  of  her  form  and  carriage.  Every  feature  was  Jewish, 
and  yet  she  might  have  been  English,  or  Spanish,  or  German, 
just  as  well.  Her  eyes  were  dark — black,  I  would  say,  if  I 
had  ever  seen  black  eyes — and  proud,  yet  with  a  dove-like  veil 
over  their  fire.  Sometimes  there  was  even  a  trouble  to  be  seen 
in  them,  as  of  a  rainy  mist  amid  the  glow  of  a  southern  sky. 
I  never  could  be  quite  sure  what  this  trouble  meant.  She  was 
rich,  therefore  she  had  no  necessity ;  she  was  not  avaricious, 
and  therefore  she  had  no  fear  of  dying  in  the  work- 
house. She  had  but  one  child,  therefore  she  was  neither 
wearied  with  motherhood,  nor  a  sufferer  from  suppressed  ma- 
ternity, moved  by  which  divine  impulse  so  many  women  take 
to  poodles  instead  of  orphans.  Her  child  was  healthy  and  act- 
ive, and  gave  her  no  anxiety.  That  she  loved  her  husband, 
no  one  who  saw  those  eastern  eyes  rest  upon  him  for  a  mo- 
ment could  doubt.  What,  then,  could  be  the  cause  of  that 
,  slight  restlessness,  that  gauzy  change,  that  pensive  shadow  ? 
I  think  that  there  was  more  love  in  her  yet  than  knew  how 
to  get  oiit  of  her.  She  would  look  round  sometimes — it  was  a 
peculiar  movement — just  as  if  some  child  had  been  pulling  at 
her  skirts.  She  had  lost  a  child,  but  I  do  not  think  that  was 
the  cause.  And  however  this  may  be,  I  do  believe  that  noth- 
ing but  the  love  of  God  will  satisfy  the  power  of  love  in  any 
woman's  bosom.  But  did  not  Bebecca — they  loved  their  old 
Jewish  names,  that  family — did  not  Bebecca  Morgenstern 


Mottle's  Microcosm.  93 

love  God  2.  Truly  I  think  she  did — but  not  enough  to  satisfy 
herself.  And  I  venture  to  say  more  :  I  do  not  believe  she 
could  love  him  to  the  degree  necessary  for  her  own  peace  till 
she  recognized  the  humanity  in  him.  But  she  was  more  under 
the  influences  emanating  from  that  story  of  the  humanity  of 
God  than  she  knew  herself.  At  all  events  she  was  a  most  hu- 
man and  lovely  lady,  full  of  grace  and  truth,  like  Mary  before 
she  was  a  Christian  ;  and  it  took  a  good  while,  namely  all  her 
son's  life  and  longer,  to  make  her  one.  Eebecca  Morgenstern 
never  became  a  Christian.  But  she  loved  children,  whether 
they  were  Christians  or  not.  And  she  loved  the  poor,  whether 
they  were  Christians  or  not ;  and,  like  Dorcas,  made  and 
caused  to  be  made,  coats  and  garments  for  them.  And,  for  my 
part,  I  know,  if  I  had  the  choice,  whether  I  would  appear  be- 
fore the  Master  in  the  train  of  the  unbelieving  Mrs.  Morgen- 
stern or  that  of  the  believing  Mrs.  Worboise.  And  as  to  self- 
righteousness,  I  think  there  is  far  less  of  that  among  those 
who  regard  the  works  of  righteousness  as  the  means  of 
salvation,  than  among  those  by  whom  faith  itself  is  degraded 
into  a  work  of  merit — a  condition  by  fulfilling  which  they  be- 
come fit  for  God's  mercy ;  for  such  is  the  trick  which  the  old 
Adam  and  the  Enemy  together  are  ready  enough  to  play  the 
most  orthodox,  in  despite  of  the  purity  of  their  creed. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

mattie's  microcosm. 

Although  Mrs.  Boxall,  senior,  was  still  far  from  well,  yet 
when  the  morning  of  Mrs.  Morgenstern's  gathering  dawned, 
lovely  even  in  the  midst  of  London,  and  the  first  sun-rays, 
with  green  tinges  and  rosy  odors  hanging  about  their  golden 
edges,  stole  into  her  room,  reminding  her  of  the  old  paddock 
and  the  feeding  cows  at  Bucks  Horton,  in  Buckingham,  she 
resolved  that  Lucy  should  go  to  Mrs.  Morgenstern's.  So  the 
good  old  lady  set  herself  to  feel  better,  in  order  that  she  might 
be  better,  and  by  the  time  Lucy,  who  had  slept  in  the  same 
room  with  her  grandmother  since  her  illness,  awoke,  she  was 
prepared  to  persuade  her  that  she  was  quite  well  enough  to 
let  her  have  a  holiday. 


94  Guild  Court. 

"  But  how  am  I  to  leave  you,  grannie,  all  alone  ?  "  objected 
Lucy. 

"  Oh  !  I  dare  say  that  queer  little  Mattie  of  yours  will  come 
in  and  keep  me  company.  Make  haste  and  get  your  clothes 
on,  and  go  and  see." 

Now  Lucy  had  had  hopes  of  inducing  Mattie  to  go  with  her, 
as  I  indicated  in  a  previous  chapter  ;  but  she  could  not  press 
the  child  after  the  reason  she  gave  for  not  going.  And  now 
she  might  as  well  ask  her  to  stay  with  her  grandmother.  So 
she  went  round  the  corner  to  Mr.  Kitely's  shop,  glancing  up 
at  Mr.  Spelt's  nest  in  the  wall  as  she  passed,  to  see  whether 
she  was  not  there. 

When  she  entered  the  wilderness  of  books  she  saw  no  one  ; 
but  peeping  round  one  of  the  many  screens,  she  spied  Mattie 
sitting  with  her  back  toward  her  and  her  head  bent  downward. 
Looking  over  her  shoulder,  she  saw  that  she  had  a  large  fold- 
ing plate  of  the  funeral  of  Lord  Nelson  open  before  her,  the 
black  shapes  of  which,  with  their  infernal  horror  of  plumes — 
the  hateful  flowers  that  the  buried  seeds  of  ancient  paganism 
still  shoot  up  into  the  pleasant  Christian  fields — she  was  study- 
ing with  an  unaccountable  absorption  of  interest. 

"  What  have  you  got  there  Mattie  ?  "  asked  Lucy. 

"  Well,  I  don't  ezackly  know,  miss,"  answered  the  child, 
looking  up,  very  white-faced  and  serious. 

"  Put  the  book  away  and  come  and  see  grannie.  She  wants 
you  to  take  care  of  her  to-day,  while  I  go  out." 

"Well,  miss,  I  would  with  pleasure  ;  "but  you  see  father  is 
gone  out,  and  has  left  me  to  take  care  of  the  shop  till  he  comes 
back." 

"  But  he  won't  be  gone  a  great  while,  will  he  ?  " 

"No,  miss.  He  knows  I  don't  like  to  be  left  too  long  with 
the  books.  He'll  be  back  before  St.  Jacob's  strikes  nine — that 
I  know." 

"  Well,  then,  I'll  go  and  get  grannie  made  comfortable  ;  and 
if  you  don't  come  to  me  by  half -past  nine,  I'll  come  after  you 
again." 

"Do,  miss,  if  you  please  ;  for  if  father  ain't  come  by  that 
time — my  poor  head — " 

"You  must  put  that  ugly  book  away,"  said  Lucy,  "and 
take  a  better  one." 

"Well,  miss,  I  know  I  oiightn't  to  have  taken  this  book, 
for  there's  no  summer  in  it ;  and  it  talks^  like  the  wind  at 
night." 

"Why  did  you  take  it,  then  ?" 


Matties  Microcosm.  95 

"  Because  Syne  told  me  to  take  it.  But  that's  just  why  I 
oughtn't  to  ha'  taken  it." 

And  she  rose  and  put  the  book  in  one  of  the  shelves  over 
her  head,  moving  her  stool  when  she  had  done  so,  and  turning 
her  face  toward  the  spot  where  the  book  now  stood.  Lucy 
watched  her  uneasily. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  saying  that  Syne  told  you  ?  "  she 
asked.     "  Who  is  Syne  ?  " 

"Don't  you  know  Syne,  miss  ?  Syne  is — you  know  ' Lord 
Syne  was  a  miserly  churl ' — don't  you  ?  " 

Then,  before  Lucy  could  reply,  she  looked  up  in  her  face, 
with  a  smile  hovering  about  the  one  side  of  her  mouth,  and 
said  : 

"  But  it's  all  nonsense,  miss,  when  you're  standing  there. 
There  isn't  no  such  person  as  Syne,  when  you're  there.  I 
don't  believe  there  is  any  such  person.  But,"  she  added  with 
a  sigh,  "when  you're  gone  away — I  don't  know.  But  I  think 
he's  up  stairs  in  the  nursery  now,"  she  said,  putting  her  hand 
to  her  big  forehead.     "  No,  no  ;  there's  no  such  person." 

And  Mattie  tried  to  laugh  outright,  but  failed  in  the  at- 
tempt, and  the  tears  rose  in  her  eyes. 

"  You've  got  a  headache,  dear,"  said  Lucy. 

"Well,  no,"  answered  Mattie.  "I  cannot  say  that  I  have 
just  a  headache,  you  know.  But  it  does  buzz  a  little.  I  hope 
Mr.  Kitely  won't  be  long  now." 

"  I  don't  like  leaving  you,  Mattie  ;  but  I  must  go  to  my 
grandmother,"  said  Lucy,  with  reluctance. 

"Nevermind  me,  miss.  I'm  used  to  it.  I  used  to  be  afraid 
of  Lord  Syne,  for  he  watched  me,  ready  to  pounce  out  upon 
me  with  all  his  men  at  his  back,  and  he  laughed  so  loud  to  see 
me  run.  But  I  know  better  now.  I  never  run  from  him  now. 
I  always  frown  at  him,  and  take  my  own  time  and  do  as  I  like. 
I  don't  want  him  to  see  that  I'm  afraid,  you  know.  And  I  do 
think  I  have  taught  him  a  lesson.  Besides,  if  he's  very 
troublesome,  you  know,  miss,  I  can  run  to  Mr.  Spelt.  But  I 
never  talk  to  him  about  Syne,  because  when  I  do  he  always 
looks  so  mournful.  Perhaps  he  thinks  it  is  wicked.  He  is  so 
good  himself,  he  has  no  idea  how  wicked  a  body  can  be." 

Lucy  thought  it  best  to  hurry  away,  that  she  might  return 
the  sooner  ;  for  she  could  not  bear  the  child  to  be  left  alone  in 
such  a  mood.  And  she  was  sure  that  the  best  thing  for  her 
would  be  to  spend  the  day  with  her  cheery  old  grandmother. 
But  as  she  was  leaving  the  shop,  Mr.  Kitely  came  in,  his  large, 
bold,  sharp  face  fresh  as  a  north  wind  without  a  touch  of  east 


96  Guild  Court. 

in  it.  Lucy  preferred  her  request  about  Mattie,  and  lie  grant- 
ed it  cordially. 

"I'm  afraid,  Mr.  Kitely,"  said  Lucy,  "the  darling  is  not 
well.     She  has  such  strange  fancies." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  returned  the  bookseller,  with  mingled 
concern  at  the  suggestion  and  refusal  to  entertain  it.  "  She's 
always  'been  a  curious  child.  Her  mother  was  like  that,  you 
see,  and  she  takes  after  her.  Perhaps  she  does  want  a  little 
more  change.  I  don't  think  she's  been  out  of  this  street,  now, 
all  her  life.  But  she'll  shake  it  off  as  she  gets  older,  I  have 
no  doubt." 

So  saying,  he  turned  into  his  shop,  and  Lucy  went  home. 
In  half  an  hour  she  went  back  for  Mattie,  and  leaving  the  two 
together,  of  whom  the  child,  in  all  her  words  and  ways,  seemed 
the  older,  set  out  for  the  West  End,  where  Mrs.  Morgenstern 
was  anxiously  hoping  for  her  appearance,  seeing  she  depend- 
ed much  upon  her  assistance  in  the  treat  she  was  giving  to 
certain  poor  people  of  her  acquaintance.  By  any  person  but 
Mattie,  Mrs.  Morgenstern  would  have  been  supposed  to  be  lit- 
erally fulfilling  the  will  of  our  Lord  in  asking  only  those  who 
could  not  return  her  invitation. 


CHAPTEK  XIV. 

THE  JEWESS  AND  HER  NEIGHBORS. 

Mrs.  Morgenstern"  looked  splendid  as  she  moved  about 
among  the  hot-house  plants,  arranging  them  in  the  hall,  on 
the  stairs,  and  in  the  drawing-rooms.  She  judged,  and  judged 
rightly,  that  one  ought  to  be  more  anxious  to  show  honor  to 
poor  neighbors  by  putting  on  her  best  attire,  than  to  ordinary 
guests  of  her  own  rank.  Therefore,  although  it  was  the  morn- 
ing, she  had  put  on  a  dress  of  green  silk,  trimmed  with  brown 
silk  and  rows  of  garnet  buttons,  which  set  off  her  dark  com- 
plexion and  her  rich  black  hair,  plainly  braided  down  her 
face,  and  loosely  gathered  behind.  She  was  half  a  head  taller 
than  Lucy,  who  was  by  no  means  short.  The  two  formed  a 
beautiful  contrast.  Lucy  was  dark-haired,,  and  dark-eyed  as 
well  as  Mrs.  Morgenstern,  but  had  a  smaller  face  and  features, 
regular  to  a  rare  degree.    Her  high,  close-fitting  dress  of  black 


The  Jewess  and  her  Neighbors.  97 

silk,  with  a  plain  linen  collar  and  cuffs,  left  her  loveliness  all 
to  itself.  Lucy  was  neither  strikingly  beautiful  nor  remark- 
ably intellectual :  when  one  came  to  understand  what  it  was 
that  attracted  him  so  much,  he  found  that  it  was  the  wonder- 
ful harmony  in  her.  As  Wordsworth  prophesied  for  his  Lucy 
that  "beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound  'should' pass  into 
her  face,"  so  it  seemed  as  if  the  harmonies  which  flowed  from 
her  father's  fingers  had  molded  her  form  and  face,  her  mo- 
tions and  thoughts,  after  their  own  fashion,  even  to  a  harmony 
which  soothed  before  one  knew  that  he  was  receiving  it,  and 
when  he  had  discovered  its  source,  made  him  ready  to  quote 
the  words  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney — 

Just  accord  all  music  makes  : 

In  thee  just  accord  excelleth. 

Where  each  part  in  such  peace  dwelleth, 

Each  of  other  beauty  takes. 

I  have  often  wondered  how  it  was  that  Lucy  was  capable  of 
so  much  ;  how  it  was,  for  instance,  that,  in  the  dispensing  of 
Mrs.  Morgenstern's  bounty,  she  dared  to  make  her  way  into 
places  where  no  one  but  herself  thought  it  could  be  safe  for 
her  to  go,  but  where  not  even  a  rude  word  was  ever  directed 
against  her  or  used  with  regard  to  her.  If  she  had  been  as 
religious  as  she  afterward  became,  I  should  not  have  won- 
dered thus  ;  for  some  who  do  not  believe  that  God  is  any- 
where in  these  dens  of  what  looks  to  them  all  misery,  will 
dare  everything  to  rescue  their  fellow-creatures  from  impend- 
ing fate.  But  Lucy  had  no  theories  to  spur  or  to  support  her. 
She  never  taught  them  any  religion  ;  she  was  only,  without 
knowing  it,  a  religion  to  their  eyes.  I  conclude,  therefore, 
that  at  this  time  it  was  just  the  harmony  of  which  I  have 
spoken  that  led  her,  protected  her,  and,  combined  with  a  dim 
consciousness  that  she  must  be  doing  right  in  following  out 
the  loving  impulses  of  her  nature,  supported  her  in  the  disa- 
greeable circumstances  into  which  she  was  sometimes  brought. 

While  they  were  thus  busy  with  the  flowers,  Miriam  joined 
them.  She  had  cast  her  neutral  tints,  and  appeared  in  a 
frock  of  dark  red,  with  a  band  of  gold  in  her  dusky  hair,  som- 
berly rich.  She  was  a  strange-looking  child,  one  of  those 
whose  coming  beauty  promises  all  the  more  that  it  has  as  yet 
reached  only  the  stage  of  interesting  ugliness.  Splendid  eyes, 
olive  complexion,  rounded  cheeks,  were  accompanied  by  a 
very  unfinished  nose,  and  a  large  mouth,  with  thick  though 
7 


98  -  Guild  Court. 

finely-modeled  lips.  She  would  be  a  glory  some  day.  She 
flitted  into  the  room,  and  flew  from  flower  to  flower  like  one 
of  those  black  and  red  butterflies  that  Scotch  children  call 
witches.  The  sight  of  her  brought  to  Lucy's  mind  by  contrast 
the  pale  face  and  troubled  brow  of  Mattie,  and  she  told  Mrs. 
Morgenstern  about  her  endeavor  to  persuade  the  child  to  come, 
and  how  and  why  she  had  failed.  Mrs.  Morgenstern  did  not 
laugh  much  at  the  story,  but  she  yery  nearly  did  something 
else. 

"Oh!  do  go  and  bring  little  Mattie,"  said  Miriam.  "I 
will  be  very  kind  to  her.  I  will  give  her  my  doll's  house  ;  for 
I  shall  be  too  big  for  it  next  year." 

"  But  I  left  her  taking  care  of  my  grandmother,"  said  Lucy, 
to  the  truth  of  whose  character  it  belonged  to  make  no  con- 
cealment of  the  simplicity  of  the  household  conditions  of  her- 
self and  her  grandmother.  "And,"  she  added,  "if  she  were 
to  come  I  must  stay,  and  she  could  not  come  without  me." 

"  But  I'll  tell  you  what — couldn't  you  bring  the  other — the 
little  Poppie  she  talks  about  ?  I  should  like  to  show  Mattie 
that  we're  not  quite  so  bad  as  she  thinks  us.  Do  you  know 
this  Poppie  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Morgenstern. 

Then  Lucy  told  her  what  she  knew  about  Poppie.  She 
had  been  making  inquiries  in  the  neighborhood,  and  though 
she  had  not  traced  the  child  to  head-quarters  anywhere,  every- 
body in  the  poor  places  in  which  she  had  sought  information 
knew  something  about  her,  though  all  they  knew  put  together 
did  not  come  to  much.  She  slept  at  the  top  of  a  stair  here, 
in  the  bottom  of  a  cupboard  there,  coiling  herself  up  in 
spaces  of  incredible  smallness  ;  but  no  one  could  say  where 
her  home  was,  or,  indeed,  if  she  had  any  home.  Nor,  if  she 
wanted  to  find  her,  was  it  of  much  consequence  whether  she 
knew  her  home  or  not,  for  that  would  certainly  be  the  last 
place  where  Poppie  would  be  found. 

"But,"  she  concluded,  "if  you  would  really  like  to  have 
her,  I  will  go  and  try  if  I  can  find  her.  I  could  be  back  in  an 
hour  and  a  half  or  so." 

"You  shall  have  the  brougham." 

"No,  no,"  interrupted  Lucy.  "To  go  in  a  brougham  to 
look  for  Poppie  would  be  like  putting  salt  on  a  bird's  tail. 
Besides,  I  should  not  like  the  probable  consequences  of  seating 
her  in  your  carriage.  But  I  should  like  to  see  how  that  wild 
little  savage  would  do  in  such  a  place  as  this. " 

"  Oh,  do  go,"  cried  Miriam,  clapping  her  hands.  "It  will 
be  such,  fun  1" 


The  Jewess  and  her  Neighbors.  99 

Lucy  ran  for  her  bonnet,  with  great  doubts  of  success,  yet 
willing  to  do  her  best  to  find  the  child.  She  did  not  know 
that  Poppie  had  followed  her  almost  to  Mrs.  Morgenstern's 
door  that  very  morning. 

Now  what  made  Lucy  sufficiently  hopeful  of  finding  Poppie 
to  start  in  pursuit  of  her,  was  the  fact  that  she  had  of  late 
seen  the  child  so  often  between  Guild  Court  and  a  certain 
other  court  in  the  neighborhood  of  Shoreditch.  But  Lucy 
did  not  know  that  it  was  because  she  was  there  that  Poppie 
was  there.  She  had  not  for  some  time,  as  I  have  said,  paid 
her  usual  visits  at  Mrs.  Morgen stern's  because  of  her  grand- 
mother's illness  ;  and  when  she  did  go  out  she  had  gone  only 
to  the  place  I  have  just  mentioned,  where  the  chief  part  of 
her  work  among  the  poor  lay.  Poppie  haunting  her  as  she 
did,  where  Lucy  was  there  she  saw  Poppie.  And,  indeed,  if 
Poppie  had  any  ties  to  one  place  more  than  a  hundred  others, 
that  place  happened  to  be  Staines  Court. 

When  Lucy  came  out  of  Mrs.  Morgenstern's,  if  she  had 
only  gone  the  other  way,  she  would  have  met  Poppie  coming 
round  the  next  corner.  After  Lucy  had  vanished,  Poppie  had 
found  a  penny  in  the  gutter,  had  bought  a  fresh  roll  with  it 
and  given  the  half  of  it  to  a  child  younger  than  herself,  whom 
she  met  at  the  back  of  the  Marylebone  police  station,  and  after 
contemplating  the  neighboring  church-yard  through  the  rail- 
ings while  they  ate  their  roll  together,  and  comparing  this 
resting-place  of  the  dead  with  the  grand  Baker  Street  Ceme- 
tery, she  had  judged  it  time  to  scamper  back  to  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Wyvil  Place,  that  she  might  have  a  chance  of 
seeing  the  beautiful  lady  as  she  came  out  again.  As  she 
turned  the  corner  she  saw  her  walking  away  toward  the  sta- 
tion, and  after  following  her  till  she  entered  it,  scudded  off 
for  the  city,  and  arrived  in  the  neighborhood  of  Guild  Court 
before  the  third  train  reached  Farringdon  Street,  to  which 
point  only  was  the  railway  then  available. 

Lucy  walked  straight  to  Staines  Court,  where  she  was  glad 
of  the  opportunity  of  doing  some  business  of  loving  kindness 
at  the  same  time  that  she  sought  Poppie.  The  first  house  she 
entered  was  in  a  dreadful  condition  of  neglect.  There  were 
hardly  more  balusters  in  the  stairs  than  served  to  keep  the 
filthy  hand-rail  in  its  place  ;  and  doubtless  they  would  by  and 
by  follow  the  fate  of  the  rest,  and  vanish  as  fire- wood.  One 
or  two  of  the  stairs,  even,  were  torn  to  pieces  for  the  same  pur- 
pose, and  the  cupboard  doors  of  the  room  into  which  Lucy 
entered  had  vanished,  with  half  the  skirting  board  and  some 


100  Guild  Court. 

of  the  flooring,  revealing  the  joists,  and  the  ceiling  of  the 
room  below.  All  this  dilapidation  did  not  matter  much  in 
summer  weather,  but  how  would  it  be  in  the  winter — except 
the  police  condemned  the  building  before  then,  and  because 
the  wretched  people  who  lived  in  it  could  get  no  better,  decreed 
that  so  far  they  should  have  no  shelter  at  all  ?  Well,  when 
the  winter  came,  they  would  just  go  on  making  larger  and 
larger  holes  to  let  in  the  wind,  and  fight  the  cold  by  burning 
their  protection  against  it. 

In  this  room  there  was  nobody.  Something  shining  in  a 
dingy  sunbeam  that  fell  upon  one  of  the  holes  in  the  floor, 
caugbt  Lucy's  eye.  Sbe  stooped,  and  putting  in  her  hand, 
drew  out  a  bottle.  At  the  same  moment  she  let  it  fall  back 
into  the  hole,  and  started  with  a  sense  of  theft. 

"Don't  touch  Mrs.  Flanaghan's  gin  bottle,  lady.  She's  a 
good  'un  to  swear,  as  you'd  be  frightened  to  hear  her.  She 
gives  me  the  creepers  sometimes,  and  I'm  used  to  her.  She 
says  it's  all  she's  got  in  the  world,  and  she's  ready  to  die  for 
the  <ould  bottle.'" 

It  was  Poppie's  pretty,  dirty  face  and  wild,  black  eyes  that 
looked  round  the  door-post. 

Lucy  felt  considerably  relieved.  She  replaced  the  bottle 
carefully,  saying  as  she  rose  : 

"I  didn't  mean  to  steal  it,  Poppie.  I  only  saw  it  shining, 
and  wanted  to  know  what  it  was.  Suppose  I  push  it  a  little 
further  in,  that  the  sun  mayn't  be  able  to  see  it  ?  " 

Poppie  thought  this  was  fun,  and  showed  her  white  teeth. 

"  But  it  was  you  I  was  looking  for — not  in  that  hole,  you 
know,"  added  Lucy,  laughing. 

"  I  think  I  could  get  into  it,  if  I  was  to  put  my  clothes  off," 
said  Poppie. 

Lucy  thought  it  would  be  a  tight  fit  indeed,  if  her  clothes 
made  any  difference. 

"  Will  you  come  with  me  ?  "  she  said.     "  I  want  you." 

"Yes,  lady,"  answered  Poppie,  looking,  though,  as  if  she 
would  bolt  in  a  moment. 

"  Come,  then,"  said  Lucy,  approaching  her  where  she  stood 
still  in  the  doorway. 

But  before  she  reached  her,  Poppie  scudded,  and  was  at  the 
bottom  of  the  stair  before  Lucy  recovered  from  the  surprise  of 
her  sudden  flight.  She  saw  at  once  that  it  would  not  do  to 
make  persistent  advances,  or  show  the  least  desire  to  get  a 
hold  of  her. 

When  she  got  to  the  last  landing-place  on  the  way  down, 


The  Jewess  and  her  Neighbors.  101 

there  was  Poppie's  face  waiting  for  her  in  the  door  below. 
Careful  as  one  who  fears  to  startle  a  half-tamed  creature  with 
wings,  Lucy  again  approached  her  ;  but  she  vanished  again, 
and  she  saw  no  more  of  her  till  she  was  at  the  mouth  of  the 
court.  There  was  Poppie  once  more,  to  vanish  yet  again.  In 
some  unaccountable  way  she  seemed  to  divine  where  Lucy  was 
going,  and  with  endless  evanishments  still  reappeared  in  front 
of  her,  till  she  reached  the  railway  station.  And  there  was 
no  Poppie. 

For  a  moment  Lucy  was  dreadfully  disappointed.  She  had 
not  yet  had  a  chance  of  trying  her  powers  of  persuasion  upon 
the  child  ;  she  had  not  been  within  arm's  length  of  her.  And 
she  stood  at  the  station  door,  hot,  tired,  and  disappointed — 
with  all  the  holiday  feeling  gone  out  of  her. 

Poppie  had  left  her,  because  she  had  no  magic  word  by 
which  to  gain  access  to  the  subterranean  regions  of  the  guarded 
railway.  She  thought  Lucy  was  going  back  to  the  great  house 
in  Wyvil  Place ;  but  whether  Poppie  left  her  to  perform  the 
same  journey  on  foot,  I  do  not  know.  She  had  scarcely  lost 
sight  of  Lucy,  however,  before  she  caught  sight  of  Thomas 
Worboise,  turning  the  corner  of  a  street  a  hundred  yards  off. 
She  darted  after  him,  and  caught  him  by  the  tail  of  his  coat. 
He  turned  on  her  angrily,  and  shook  her  off. 

"  The  lady,"  gasped  Poppie  ;  but  Thomas  would  not  listen, 
and  went  on  his  way.  Poppie  in  her  turn  was  disappointed, 
and  stood  "like  one  forbid."  But  at  that -very  moment  her 
eye  fell  on  something  in  the  kennel.  She  was  always  finding- 
things,  though  they  were  generally  the  veriest  trifles.  The 
penny  of  that  morning  was  something  almost  awful  in  its 
importance.  This  time  it  was  a  bit  of  red  glass.  Now  Poppie 
had  quite  as  much  delight  in  colored  glass  as  Lord  Bacon  had, 
who  advised  that  hedges  in  great  gardens  should  be  adorned 
on  the  top  here  and  there  "with  broad  plates  of  round,  colored 
glass,  gilt,  for  the  sun  to  play  upon,"  only  as  she  had  less  of 
the  ways  and  means  of  procuring  what  she  valued,  she  valued 
what  she  could  lay  her  hands  upon  so  much  the  more.  She 
darted  at  the  red  shine,  wiped  it  on  her  frock,  sucked  it  clean 
in  her  mouth,  as  clean  as  her  bright  ivories,  and  polished  it 
up  with  her  hands,  scudding  all  the  time,  in  the  hope  that 
Lucy  might  be  at  the  station  still.  Poppie  did  not  seek  to 
analyze  her  feelings  in  doing  as  she  did  ;  but  what  she  wanted 
was  to  give  Lucy  her  treasure-trove.  Sbe  never  doubted  that 
what  was  valuable  to  her  would  be  valuable  to  a  beautiful  lady. 
As  little  did  she  imagine  how  much  value,  as  the  gift  of  a 


102  Guild  Court. 

ragged  little  personage  like  herself,  that  which  was  all  but 
worthless  would  acquire  in  the  eyes  of  a  lady  beautiful  as  Lucy 
was  beautiful,  with  the  beauty  of  a  tender  human  heart. 

Lucy  was  sitting  in  the  open  waiting-room,  so  weary  and 
disappointed  that  little  would  have  made  her  cry.  Sbe  had 
let  one  train  go  on  the  vague  chance  that  the  erratic  little 
maiden  might  yet  show  herself,  but  her  last  hope  was  almost 
gone  when,  to  her  great  delight,  once  more  she  spied  the  odd 
creature  peeping  round  the  side  of  the  door.  She  had  presence 
of  mind  enough  not  to  rise,  lest  she  should  startle  the  human 
lapwing,  and  made  her  a  sign  instead  to  come  to  her.  This 
being  just  what  Poppie  wished  at  the  moment,  she  obeyed. 
She  darted  up  to  Lucy,  put  the  piece  of  red  glass  into  her 
hand,  and  would  have  been  off  again  like  a  low-flying  swallow, 
had  not  Lucy  caught  her  by  the  arm.  Once  caught,  Poppie 
never  attempted  to  struggle.  On  this  occasion  she  only  showed 
her  teeth  in  a  rather  constrained  smile,  and  stood  still.  Lucy, 
however,  did  not  take  her  hand  from  her  arm,  for  she  felt  that 
the  little  phenomenon  would  disappear  at  once  if  she  did. 

"Poppie,"  she  said,  "I  want  you  to  come  with  me." 

Poppie  only  grinned  again.  So  Lucy  rose,  still  holding  her 
by  the  arm,  and  went  to  the  ticket-window  and  got  two  sec- 
ond-class tickets.  Poppie  went  on  grinning,  and  accompanied 
her  down  the  stairs  without  one  obstructive  motion. 

When  they  were  fairly  seated  in  the  carriage,  and  there  was 
no  longer  any  danger  of  her  prisoner  attempting  to  escape, 
Lucy  thought  of  the  something  Poppie  had  given  her,  at 
which  she  had  not  even  looked,  so  anxious  was  she  to  secure 
her  bird.  When  she  saw  it,  she  comprehended  it  at  once — 
the  sign  of  love,  the  appeal  of  a  half -savage  sister  to  one  of  her 
own  kind,  in  whom  she  dimly  recognized  her  far-off  ideal ; 
even  then  not  seeking  love  from  the  higher,  only  tendering 
the  richest  human  gift,  simple  love,  unsought,  unbought. 
Thus  a  fragment  dropped  by  some  glazier  as  he  went  to  mend 
the  glass  door  leading  into  a  garden,  and  picked  out  of  the 
gutter  by  a  beggar  girl,  who  had  never  yet  thought  whether 
she  had  had  a  father  or  a  mother,  became  in  that  same  girl's 
hands  a  something  which  the  Lord  himself,  however  some  of 
his  interpreters  might  be  shocked  at  tbe  statement,  would 
have  recognized  as  partaking  of  the  character  of  his  own  eu- 
charist.  And  as  such,  though  without  thinking  of  it  after 
that  fashion,  it  was  received  by  the  beautiful  lady.  The  tears 
came  into  her  eyes.  Poppie  thought  she  had  offended  or  dis- 
appointed her,  and  looked  very  grave.     Lucy  saw  she  had 


The  Jewess  and  her  Neighbors.  103 

misunderstood  her.  There  was  no  one  in  the  carriage  with 
them.  She  stooped  and  kissed  her.  Then  the  same  tears 
came,  almost  for  the  first  time  since  she  had  been  an  infant, 
into  Poppie's  eyes.  But  just  then  the  train  moved  off,  and 
although  the  child  by  no  remark  and  no  motion  evinced  aston- 
ishment any  more  than  fear,  she  watched  everything  with  the 
intensity  of  an  animal  which  in  new  circumstances  cannot 
afford  to  lose  one  moment  of  circumspection,  seeing  a  true 
knowledge  of  the  whole  may  be  indispensable  to  the  retention 
of  its  liberty  ;  and  before  they  reached  King's  Cross,  her  eyes 
were  clear,  and  only  a  channel  on  each  cheek,  ending  in  a  little 
mud-bank,  showed  that  just  two  tears  had  flowed  half  way 
down  her  cheeks  and  dried  there  undisturbed  in  the  absorption 
of  her  interest. 

Before  they  reached  Baker  Street  station,  Lucy  had  begun 
to  be  anxious  as  to  how  she  should  get  her  charge  through  the 
streets.  But  no  sooner  were  they  upon  the  stairs,  than  Lucy 
perceived  by  the  way  in  which  Poppie  walked,  and  the  way  in 
which  she  now  and  then  looked  up  at  her,  that  there  was  no 
longer  any  likelihood  that  she  would  run  away  from  her. 
When  they  reached  the  top,  she  took  her  by  the  hand,  and, 
without  showing  the  slightest  inclination  to  bolt,  Poppie  trot- 
ted alongside  of  her  to  Mrs.  Morgenstern's  door.  Having 
gained  her  purpose,  Lucy's  weariness  had  quite  left  her,  and 
her  eyes  shone  with  triumph.  They  made  a  strange  couple, 
that  graceful  lady  and  that  ragged,  bizarre  child,  who  would, 
however,  have  shown  herself  lovely  to  any  eyes  keen  enough  to 
see  through  the  dirt  which  came  and  went  according  to  laws 
as  unknown  to  Poppie  as  if  it  had  been  a  London  fog. 

Lucy  knocked  at  the  door.  It  was  opened  by  a  huge  porter 
in  a  rich  livery,  and  shoulder-knots  like  the  cords  of  a  coffin, 
as  if  he  were  about  to  be  lowered  into  his  grave  standing.  He 
started  at  sight  of  the  little  city  Bedouin,  but  stood  aside  to 
let  them  enter,  with  all  the  respect  which,  like  the  rest  of  his 
class,  he  ever  condescended  to  show  to  those  who,  like  Miss 
Burton,  came  to  instruct  Miss  Morgenstern,  and  gave  him,  so 
much  their  superior,  the  trouble  of  opening  the  door  to  them. 
The  pride  of  the  proudest  nobleman  or  parvenu-millionaire 
is  entirely  cast  in  the  shade  by  the  pride  of  his  servants,  justi- 
fying the  representation  of  Spenser,  that  although  Orgoglio  is 
the  son  of  Terra  by  iEolus,  he  cannot  be  raised  to  his  full 
giantship  without  the  aid  of  his  foster-father  Ignaro.  Lucy, 
however,  cared  as  little  for  this  form  of  contempt  as  imper- 
vious little  Poppie  by  her  side,  who  trotted  as  unconcerned 


104  Guild  Court. 

over  the  black  and  white  lozenges  of  the  marble  floor  as  over 
the  ordinary  slabs  of  Guild  Court,  or  the  round  stones  of 
Staines  Court,  and  looked  up  the  splendid  stair-case  which 
rose  from  the  middle  of  the  round  hall  till  it  reached  its  side, 
and  then  branched  into  two  that  ran  circling  and  ascending 
the  wall  to  the  floor  above,  its  hand-rails  and  balusters  shirjing 
with  gold,  and  its  steps  covered  with  a  carpet  two  yards  wide, 
in  which  the  foot  sank  as  if  in  grass,  with  as  much  indiffer- 
ence as  if  it  were  the  break-neck  stair-case  I  have  already  de- 
scribed as  leading  to  the  abode  of  Mistress  Flanaghan.  But' 
her  little  bare  feet  were  not  destined  to  press  such  a  luxurious 
support ;  better  things  awaited  them,  namely,  the  grass  itself ; 
for  the  resplendent  creature  whose  head  and  legs  were  equally 
indebted  to  the  skill  of  the  cunning  workman,  strode  on  be- 
fore them,  and  through  a  glass  door  at  the  back,  to  a  lawn 
behind,  such  as  few  London  dwellings  have  to  show.  They 
might  have  thought  that  they  had  been  transported  by  en- 
chantment to  some  country  palace,  so  skillfully  were  the 
neighboring  houses  hidden  by  the  trees  that  encircled  the 
garden.  Mrs.  Morgenstern,  with  a  little  company  of  her 
friends,  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  lawn,  while  many 
of  her  poorer  neighbors  were  wandering  about  the  place  en- 
joying the  flowers,  and  what  to  them  was  indeed  fresh  air, 
when  Lucy  came  out  with  the  dirty,  bare-legged  child  in  her 
hand.  All  eyes  turned  upon  her,  and  a  lovelier  girl  doing 
lovelier  deed  would  have  taken  more  than  that  summer  morn- 
ing to  discover. 

But  Lucy  had  the  bit  of  red  glass  in  her  mind,  and,  with- 
out heeding  hostess  or  friends  for  the  moment,  led  Poppie 
straight  toward  a  lovely  rose-tree  that  stood  in  full  blossom  on 
one  side  of  the  lawn.  How  cool  that  kindly  humble  grass 
must  have  felt  to  the  hot  feet  of  the  darling  !  But  she  had  no 
time  to  think  about  it.  For  as  she  drew  near  the  rose-tree, 
her  gaze  became  more  and  more  fixed  upon  it ;  when  at  length 
she  stood  before  it,  and  beheld  it  in  all  its  glory,  she  burst 
into  a  very  passion  of  weeping.  The  eyes  of  the  daughter  of 
man  became  rivers,  and  her  head  a  fountain  of  waters,  filled 
and  glorified  by  the  presence  of  a  rose-tree.  All  that  were 
near  gathered  about,  till  "Lucy,  Poppie,  and  the  rose-tree  were 
the  center  of  a  group.  Lucy  made  no  attempt  to  stay  the 
flow  of  Poppie's  tears,  for  her  own  heart  swelled  and  swelled 
at  the  sight  of  the  child's  feelings.  Surely  it  was  the  pres- 
ence of  God  that  so  moved  her  :  if  ever  bush  burned  with  fire 
and  was  not  consumed,  that  rose-bush  burned  with  the  pres- 


TJw  Jewess  and  Tier  Neighbors.  105 

ence  of  God.  Poppie  had  no  handkerchief ;  nor  was  there 
continuity  of  space  enough  in  her  garments  to  hold  a  pocket : 
she  generally  carried  things  in  her  mouth  when  they  were 
small  enough  to  go  in.  And  she  did  not  even  put  her  hands 
to  her  face  to  hide  her  emotion.  She  let  her  tears  run  down 
her  stained  cheeks,  and  let  sob  follow  sob  unchecked,  gazing 
ever  through  the  storm  of  her  little  world  at  the  marvel  in 
front  of  her.  She  had  seen  a  rose  before,  but  had  never  seen 
a  rose-tree  full  of  roses.  At  last  Lucy  drew  her  handkerchief 
from  her  pocket,  and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  Poppie  had 
tears  wiped  from  her  face  by  a  loving  hand. 

There  was  one  man,  and  only  one,  in  the  company — Mr. 
Sargent,  a  young  barrister.  He  was  the  first  to  speak.  He 
drew  near  to  Lucy  and  said,  in  a  half  whisper  : 

"Where  did  you  find  the  little  creature,  Miss  Burton  ?" 

"  That  would  be  hard  to  say,"  answered  Lucy,  with  a  smile. 
"  Is'n't  she  a  darling  ?  " 

"You  are  a  darling,  anyhow,"  said  Mr.  Sargent,  but  neither 
to  Lucy  nor  to  any  one  but  himself.  He  had  been  like  one  of 
the  family  for  many  years,  for  his  father  and  Mr.  Morgenstern 
had  been  intimate,  and  he  had  admired  Lucy  ever  since  she 
went  first  to  the  house ;  but  he  had  never  seen  her  look  so 
lovely  as  she  looked  that  morning. 

Certain  harmonious  circumstances  are  always  necessary  to 
bring  out  the  peculiar  beauty  both  of  persons  and  things — a 
truth  recognized  by  Emerson  in  his  lovely  poem  called  "  Each 
and  All,"  but  recognized  imperfectly,  inasmuch  as  he  seems  to 
represent  the  beauty  of  each  as  dependent  on  the  all  not  mere- 
ly for  its  full  manifestation,  but  for  its  actual  being  ;  a  truth 
likewise  recognized  by  Shakespeare,  but  by  him  with  absolute 
truth  of  vision — 

The  nightingale,  if  she  should  sing  by  day, 
When  every  goose  is  cackling,  would  be  thought 
No  better  a  musician  than  the  wren. 
How  many  things  by  season  seasoned  are 
To  their  right  praise  and  true  perfection  ! 

It  was  to  the  praise  of  Lucy's  beauty  that  in  this  group  she 
should  thus  look  more  beautiful.  The  rose-tree  and  the  splen- 
dor of  Mrs.  Morgenstern  did  not  eclipse  her,  because  her 
beauty  was  of  another  sort,  which  made  a  lovely  harmony  of 
difference  with  theirs.  Or  perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  the  rag- 
ged child  in  her  hand  that  gave  a  tender  glow  to  her  presence 
unseen  before. 


106  Guild  Court. 

Little  Miriam  pulled  at  her  mamma's  skirt.  She  stooped  to 
the  child. 

"  Somebody  has  lost  that  one,"  said  Miriam,  pointing  shyly 
to  Poppie.   "  She  looks  like  it. " 

"  Perhaps,"  said  her  mother.  But  the  answer  did  not  sat- 
isfy Miriam. 

"  You  told  me  you  had  lost  a  little  girl  once,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Morgenstern  had  never  yet  uttered  the  word  death  in 
her  hearing.  As  to  the  little  dead  daughter,  she  had  to  the 
sister  said  only  that  she  had  lost  her.  Miriam  had  to  inter- 
pret the  phrase  for  herself. 

"Yes,  dear  child,"  answered  her  mother,  not  yet  seeing 
what  she  was  driving  at. 

"  Don't  you  think,  mamma,"  pursued  Miriam,  with  the 
tears  rising  in  her  great  black  eyes,  "  that  that's  her  ?  I  do. 
I  am  sure  it  is  my  little  sister." 

Mrs.  Morgenstern  had  the  tenderest  memories  of  her  lost 
darling,  and  turned  away  to  hide  her  feelings.  Meantime  a 
little  conversation  had  arisen  in  the  group.  Lucy  had  let  go 
her  hold  of  Poppie,  whose  tears  had  now  ceased.  Miriam 
drew  near,  shyly,  and  possessed  herself  of  the  hand  of  the  va- 
grant. Her  mother  turned  and  saw  her,  and  motherhood 
spoke  aloud  in  her  heart.  How  did  it  manifest  itself  ?  In 
drawing  her  child  away  from  the  dirt  that  divided  their  hands  ? 
That  might  have  proved  her  a  dam,  but  would  have  gone  far 
to  disprove  her  motherhood. 

"What  shall  we  do  with  her,  Miriam  ?"  she  said. 

"Ask  nurse  to  wash  her  in  the  bath,  and  put  one  of  my 
frocks  on  her." 

Poppie  snatched  her  hand  from  Miriam's,  and  began  to 
look  about  her  with  wild-eyed  search  after  a  hole  to  run  into. 
Mrs.  Morgenstern  saw  that  she  was  frightened,  and  turned 
away  to  Lucy,  who  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  rose-tree, 
talking  to  Mr.  Sargent. 

"  Couldn't  we  do  something  to  make  the  child  tidy,  Lucy  ?  " 
she  said. 

Lucy  gave  her  shoulders  a  little  shrug,  as  much  as  to  say  she 
feared  it  would  not  be  of  muoh  use.  She  was  wrong  there,  for 
if  the  child  should  never  be  clean  again  in  her  life,  no  one 
could  tell  how  the  growth  of  moral  feeling  migbt  be  aided  in 
her  by  her  once  knowing  what  it  was  to  have  a  clean  skin  and 
clean  garments.  It  might  serve  hereafter,  in  her  conscious- 
ness, as  a  type  of  something  better  still  than  personal  cleanli- 
ness, might  work  in  aid  of  her  consciousness  as  a  vague  re- 


The  Jewess  and  Tier  Neighbors.  107 

minder  of  ideal  purity — not  altogether  pleasant  to  her  igno- 
rant fancy,  and  yet  to  be — faintly  and  fearingly — desired.  But 
although  Lucy  did  not  see  much  use  in  washing  her,  she 
could  not  help  wondering  what  she  would  look  like  if  she 
were  clean.  And  she  proceeded  to  carry  out  her  friend's 
wishes. 

Poppie  was  getting  bored  already  with  the  unrealized  world 
of  grandeur  around  her.  The  magic  of  the  roses  was  all  gone, 
and  she  was  only  looking  out  for  a  chance  of  scudding.  Yet 
when  Lucy  spoke  to  her  she  willingly  yielded  her  hand,  per- 
haps in  the  hope  that  she  was,  like  Peter's  angel,  about  to 
open  the  prison-doors,  and  lead  her  out  of  her  prison. 

Lucy  gave  an  amusing  account  of  how  Poppie  looked 
askance,  with  a  mingling  of  terror  and  repugnance,  at  the 
great  bath,  half  full  of  water,  into  which  she  was  about  to  be 
plunged.  But  the  door  was  shut,  and  there  was  not  even  a 
chimney  for  her  to  run  up,  and  she  submitted.  She  looked 
even  pleased  when  she  was  at  length  in  the  midst  of  the  water. 
But  Lucy  found  that  she  had  undertaken  a  far  more  difficult 
task  than  she  had  expected — especially  when  she  came  to  her 
hair.  It  was  nearly  two  hours,  notwithstanding  repeated  mes- 
sages from  Mrs.  Morgenstern  and  tappings  at  the  door  of  the 
bath-room  by  Miriam,  before  she  was  able  to  reproduce  the  lit- 
tle savage  on  whom  she  had  been  bestowing  this  baptism  of 
love. 

When  she  came  down  at  last,  the  company,  consisting  of 
some  of  Mrs.  Morgenstern's  more  intimate  friends,  and  a 
goodly  number  of  clients  if  not  exactly  dependents,  was  seated 
at  luncheon  in  the  large  dining-room.  Poppie  attracted  all 
eyes  once  more.  She  was  dressed  in  a  last  year's  summer  frock 
of  Miriam's,  and  her  hair  was  reduced  to  order ;  but  she  had 
begun  to  cry  so  piteously  when  Lucy  began  to  put  stockings 
upon  her,  that  she  gave  it  up  at  once,  and  her  legs  were  still 
bare.  I  presume  she  saw  the  last  remnants  of  her  freedom 
vanishing  in  those  gyves  and  fetters.  But  nice  and  clean  as 
she  looked,  she  certainly  had  lost  something  by  her  decent 
garments.  Poppie  must  have  been  made  for  rags  and  rags  for 
Poppie — they  went  so  admirably  together.  And  there  is  noth- 
ing wicked  in  rags  or  in  poverty.  It  is  possible  to  go  in  rags 
and  keep  the  Ten  Commandments,  and  it  is  possible  to  ride  in 
purple  and  fine  linen  and  break  every  one  of  them.  Nothing, 
however,  could  spoil  the  wildness  of  those  honestly  furtive 
eyes. 

Seated  beside  Lucy  at  the  table,  she  did  nothing  but  first 


108  Guild  Court. 

stare,  then  dart  her  eyes  from  one  to  another  of  the  company 
with  the  scared  expression  of  a  creature  caught  in  a  trap,  and. 
then  stare  again.  She  was  evidently  anything  but  comfortable. 
When  Lucy  spoke  to  her  she  did  not  reply,  but  gazed  appeal- 
ingly,  and  on  the  point  of  crying,  into  her  eyes,  as  if  to  say, 
"What  have  I  done  to  be  punished  in  this  dreadful  manner  ?" 
Lucy  tried  hard  to  make  her  eat,  but  she  sat  and  stared  and 
would  touch  nothing.  Her  plate,  with  the  wing  of  a  chicken 
on  it,  stood  before  her  unregarded.  But  all  at  once  she 
darted  out  her  hand  like  the  paw  of  a  wild  beast,  caught 
something,  slipped  from  her  chair,  and  disappeared  under  the 
table.  Peeping  down  after  her,  Lucy  saw  her  seated  on  the 
floor,  devouring  the  roll  which  had  been  put  by  the  side  of  her 
plate.  Judging  it  best  not  to  disturb  her,  she  took  no  more 
notice  of  her  for  some  time,  during  which  Poppie,  having  dis- 
covered a  long  row  of  resplendent  buttons  down  the  front  of 
her  dress,  twisted  them  all  off  with  a  purpose  manifested  as 
soon  as  the  luncheon  was  over.  When  the  company  rose  from 
their  seats,  she  crawled  out  from  under  the  table  and  ran  to 
Miriam,  holding  out  both  her  hands.  Miriam  held  out  her 
hands  to  meet  Poppie's,  and  received  them  full  of  the  buttons 
off  her  own  old  frock. 

"  Oh  !  you  naughty  Poppie,"  said  Lucy,  who  had  watched 
her.  "Why  did  you  cut  off  the  buttons  ?  Don't  you  like 
them  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  golly  !  don't  I  just  ?  And  so  does  she.  Tuck  me 
up  if  she  don't ! " 

Poppie  had  no  idea  that  she  had  done  anything  improper. 
It  was  not  as  buttons,  but  per  se,  as  pretty  things,  that  she 
admired  the  knobs,  and  therefore  she  gave  them  to  Miriam. 
Having  said  thus,  she  caught  at  another  tommy,  as  she  would 
have  called  it,  dived  under  the  table  again,  and  devoured  it  at 
her  ease,  keeping,  however,  a  sharp  eye  upon  her  opportunity. 
Finding  one  when  Lucy,  who  had  remained  in  the  room  to 
look  after  her,  was  paying  more  attention  to  the  party  in  the 
garden,  she  crawled  out  at  the  door,  left  open  during  the  pro- 
cess of  taking  away,  and  with  her  hand  on  the  ponderous  lock 
of  the  street  door,  found  herself  seized  from  behind  by  the 
porter.  She  had  been  too  long  a  pupil  of  the  London  streets  not 
to  know  the  real  position  of  the  liveried  in  the  social  scale,  and 
for  them  she  had  as  little  respect  as  any  of  her  tribe.  She 
therefore  assailed  him  with  such  a  torrent  of  bad  language, 
scarcely  understanding  a  word  that  she  used,  that  he  declared 
it  made  his  "  'air  stand  on  hend,"  although  he  was  tolerably 


The  Jewess  and  her  Neighbors.  109 

familiar  with  such  at  the  Spotted  Dog  round  the  corner. 
Finding,  however,  that  this  discharge  of  cuttle-fish  ink  had 
no  effect  upon  the  enemy,  she  tried  another  mode — and,  with 
a  yell  of  pain,  the  man  fell  hack,  shaking  his  hand,  which 
bore  the  marks  of  four  sharp  incisors.  In  one  moment  Pop- 
pie  was  free,  and  scudding.  Thus  ended  her  introduction  to 
civilized  life. 

Poppie  did  not  find  it  nice.  She  preferred  all  London  to 
the  biggest  house  and  garden  in  it.  True,  there  was  that 
marvelous  rose-tree.  But  free-born  creatures  cannot  live  upon 
the  contemplation  of  roses.  After  all,  the  thing  she  had  been 
brought  up  to — the  streets,  the  kennels  with  their  occasional 
crusts,  pennies,  and  bits  of  glass,  the  holes  to  creep  into,  and 
the  endless  room  for  scudding— was  better.  And  her  unsuit- 
able dress,  which  did  attract  the  eyes  of  the  passers — being 
such  as  was  seldom  seen  in  connection  with  bare  hair  and  legs — • 
would  soon  accommodate  itself  to  circumstances,  taking  the 
form  of  rags  before  a  week  was  over,  to  which  change  of  con- 
dition no  care  of  Poppie's  would  interpose  an  obstacle.  For, 
like  the  birds  of  the  air  and  the  lilies  of  the  field,  she  had  no 
care.  She  did  not  know  what  it  meant.  And  possibly  the 
great  One  who  made  her  may  have  different  ideas  about  respect- 
ability from  those  of  dining  aldermen  and  members  of  Parlia- 
ment from  certain  boroughs  that  might  be  named. 

At  the  porter's  cry  Lucy  started,  and  found  to  her  dismay 
that  her  charge  was  gone.  She  could  not,  however,  help  a 
certain  somewhat  malicious  pleasure  at  the  man's  discomfiture 
and  the  baby-like  way  in  which  he  lamented  over  his  bitten  fin- 
ger. He  forgot  himself  so  far  as  to  call  her  "  the  little  devil " — 
which  was  quite  in  accordance  with  his  respectable  way  of 
thinking.  Both  Mrs.  Morgenstern  and  Lucy,  after  the  first 
disappointment  and  vexation  were  over,  laughed  heartily  at 
the  affair,  and  even  Miriam  was  worked  up  to  a  smile  at  last. 
But  she  continued  very  mournful,  notwithstanding,  over  the 
loss  of  her  sister,  as  she  would  call  her. 

Mr.  Sargent  did  his  best  to  enliven  the  party.  He  was  a 
man  of  good  feeling,  and  of  more  than  ordinary  love  for  the 
right.  This,  however,  from  a  dread  of  what  he  would  have 
called  sentimentality,  he  persisted  in  regarding  as  a  mere  pecu- 
liarity, possibly  a  weakness.  If  he  made  up  his  mind  to  help 
any  one  who  was  wronged,  for  which  it  must  be  confessed  he 
had  more  time  than  he  would  have  cared  to  acknowledge,  he 
would  say  that  he  had  "  taken  an  interest  in  such  or  such  a 
case;"  or  that  the  case  involved  " points  of  interest,"  which 


110  Guild  Court. 

he  was  "  willing  to  see  settled."  He  never  said  that  he  wanted 
to  see  right  done  :  that  would  have  been  enthusiastic,  and  un- 
worthy of  the  cold  dignity  of  a  lawyer.  So  he  was  one  of  those 
false  men,  alas  too  few  !  who  always  represent  themselves  as 
inferior  to  what  they  are.  Many  and  various  were  the  jokes 
he  made  upon  Poppie  and  Jeames,  ever,  it  must  be  confessed, 
with  an  eye  to  the  approbation  of  Miss  Burton.  He  declared, 
for  instance,  that  the  Armageddon  of  class-legislature  would 
be  fought  between  those  of  whom  the  porter  and  Poppie  were 
the  representatives,  and  rejoiced  that,  as  in  the  case  of  the 
small  quarrel  between  Fitz  James  and  Eoderick  Dhu,  Poppie 
had  drawn  the  first  blood,  and  gained  thereby  a  good  omen. 
And  Lucy  was  pleased  with  him,  it  must  be  confessed.  She 
never  thought  of  comparing  him  with  Thomas,  which  was  well 
for  Thomas.  But  she  did  think  he  was  a  very  clever,  gentle- 
manly fellow,  and  knew  how  to  make  himself  agreeable. 

He  offered  to  see  her .  home,  which  she  declined,,  not  even 
permitting  him  to  walk  with  her  to  the  railway. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  TWO   OLD   WOMEF. 

She  found  the  two  old  women,  of  whom  Mattie  still  seemed 
the  older,  seated  together  at  their  tea.  Not  a  ray  of  the  after- 
noon sun  could  find  its  way  into  the  room.  It  was  dusky  and 
sultry,  with  a  smell  of  roses.  This,  and  its  strange  mingling 
of  furniture,  made  it  like  a  room  over  a  broker's  in  some  coun- 
try town. 

"Well,  Miss  Burton,  here  you  are  at  last! "said  Mattie, 
with  a  half  smile  on  the  half  of  her  mouth. 

"Yes,  Mattie,  here  I  am.  Has  grandmother  been  good  to 
you  ?  " 

"  Of  course  she  has — very  good.  Everybody  is  good  to  me. 
I  am  a  very  fortunate  child,  as  my  father  says,  though  he 
never  seems  to  mean  it. " 

"And  how  do  you  think. your  patient  is? "asked  Lucy, 
while  Mrs.  Boxall  sat  silent,  careful  not  to  obstruct  the  amuse- 
ment which  the  child's  answers  must  give  them. 

"  Well,  I  do  not  think  Mrs.  Boxall  is  worse.  She  has  been  very 


The  Two  Old  Women.  Ill 

good,  and  has  done  everything  I  found  myself  obliged  to  rec- 
ommend. I  would  not  let  her  get  up  so  soon  as  she  wanted 
to." 

"  And  what  did  you  do  to  keep  her  in  bed  ?  "  asked  Lucy. 

"  Well,  I  could  not  think  of  a  story  to  tell  her  just  then,  so 
I  got  the  big  Bible  out  of  the  bookcase,  and  began  to  show 
her  the  pictures.  But  she  did  not  care  about  that.  I  think 
it  was  my  fault,  though,  because  I  was  not  able  to  hold  the 
book  so  that  she  could  see  them  properly.  So  I  read  a  story 
to  her,  but  I  do  not  think  I  chose  a  very  nice  one." 

Mrs.  Boxall  made  a  deprecating  motion  with  her  head  and 
hands,  accompanied  by  the  words — 

"  She  will  say  what  she  thinks — Bible  or  Prayer-book." 

" Well,  and  where's  the  harm,  when  I  mean  none  ?  Who's 
to  be  angry  at  that  ?  I  will  say,"  Mattie  went  on,  "that  it 
was  an  ugly  trick  of  that  woman  to  serve  a  person  that  never 
did  her  any  harm  ;  and  I  wonder  at  two  sensible  women  like 
Mrs.  Boxall  and  Deborah  sticking  up  for  her." 

"  Is  it  Jael  she  means,  grannie  ?  "  asked  Lucy,  very  softly. 

"  Yes,  it  is  Jael  she  means,"  answered  Mattie  for  herself, 
with  some  defiance  in  her  tone. 

"For  my  part,"  she  continued,  "I  think  it  was  just  like 
one  of  Syne's  tricks." 

"  Have  you  seen  Mr.  Spelt  to-day,  Mattie  ?  "  asked  Lucy, 
desirous  of  changing  the  subject,  because  of  the  direction  the 
child's  thoughts  had  taken. 

"Well,  I  haven't,"  answered  Mattie,  "and  I  will  go  and 
see  now  whether  he's  gone  or  not.  But  don't  you  fancy  that 
I  don't  see  through  it  for  all  that,  Miss  Burton,"  she  contin- 
ued. "  I  shouldn't  have  been  in  the  way,  though — not  much, 
for  I  like  to  see  young  people  enjoying  themselves." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Mattie  ?"  asked  Lucy  with  a  bewil- 
derment occasioned  rather  by  the  quarter  whence  the  words 
proceeded  than  by  the  words  themselves  ;  for  she  did  expect 
to  see  Thomas  that  evening. 

Mattie  vouchsafed  no  reply  to  the  question,  but  bade  them 
good-night,  the  one  and  the  other,  with  an  evident  expression 
of  hauteur,  and  marched  solemnly  down  the  stairs,  holding 
carefully  by  the  balusters,  for  she  was  too  small  to  use  the 
hand-rail  comfortably. 

Mr.  Spelt's  roost  was  shut  up  for  the  night :  he  had  gone  to 
take  some  work  home.  Mattie  therefore  turned  toward  her 
father's  shop. 

In  the  archway  she  ran  against  Thomas,  or,  more  properly, 


112  ..  Guild  Court 

Thomas  ran  against  her,  for  Mattie  never  ran  at  all,  so  that 
he  had  to  clasp  her  to  prevent  her  from  falling. 

"Well,  you  needn't  be  in  such  a  hurry,  Mr.  Thomas,  though 
she  is  a-waiting  for  you.  She  won't  go  till  you  come,  1 
know." 

"You're  a  cheeky  little  monkey,"  said  Thomas,  good  na- 
turedly.  But  the  words  were  altogether  out  of  tune  with  the 
idea  of  Mattie,  who  again  felt  her  dignity  invaded,  and  walked 
into  the  shop  with  her  chin  projecting  more  than  usual. 

"  Come,  my  princess,"  said  her  father,  seating  himself  in  an 
old  chair,  and  taking  the  child  on  his  knee.  "  I  haven't  seen 
my  princess  all  day.     How's  your  royal  highness  this  night  ?  " 

Mattie  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"What's  the  matter  with  my  pet  ?"  said  her  father,  fond- 
ling and  soothing  her  with  much  concern.  "Has  anybody 
been  unkind  to  you  ?  " 

"No,  Mr.  Kitely,"  said  the  child,  "but  I  feel  that  lonely  ! 
I  wish  you  would  read  to  me  a  bit,  for  Mr.  Spelt  ain't  there, 
and  I  read  something  in  the  Bible  this  morning  that  ain't 
done  me  no  good." 

"  You  shouldn't  read  such  things,  Mattie,"  said  the  book- 
seller. "  They  ain't  no  good.  I'll  go  and  get  a  candle.  Sit 
you  there  till  I  come  back." 

"No,  no,  father.  Don't  leave  me  here.  I  don't  like  the 
books  to-night.     Take  me  with  you.     Carry  me." 

The  father  obeyed  at  once,  took  his  child  on  his  arm,  got  a 
candle  from  the  back  room,  for  the  place  was  very  dusky — he 
did  not  care  to  light  the  gas  this  time  of  the  year — and  sat 
down  with  Mattie  in  a  part  of  the  shop  which  was  screened 
from  the  door,  where  he  could  yet  hear  every  footstep  that 
passed. 

"What  shall  I  read  now,  my  precious  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  I  care  for  anything  but  the  New  Testa- 
ment to-night,  father." 

"Why,  you've  just  been  saying  it  disagreed  with  you  this 
very  morning,"  objected  Mr.  Kitely. 

"  No,  father.  It  wasn't  the  New  Testament  at  all.  It  was 
the  very  old  Testament,  I  believe  ;  for  it  was  near  the  begin- 
ning of  it,  and  told  all  about  a  horrid  murder.  I  do  believe," 
she  added,  reflectively,  "  that  that  book  grows  better  as  it  gets 
older — younger,  I  mean." 

The  poor  child  wanted  some  one  to  help  her  out  of  her  Bible 
difficulties,  and  her  father  certainly  was  not  the  man  to  do  so, 
for  he  believed  nothing  about  or  in  it.     Like  many  other  chil- 


The  Two  Old  Women.  113 

dren  far  more  carefully  taught  of  man,  she  was  laboring  under 
the  misery  of  the  fancy  that  everything  related  in  the  Old 
Testament  without  remark  of  disapprobation  is  sanctioned  by 
the  divine  will.  If  parents  do  not  encourage  their  children  to 
speak  their  minds  about  what  they  read  generally,  and  espe- 
cially in  the  Bible,  they  will  one  day  be  dismayed  to  find  that 
they  have  not  merely  the  strangest  but  the  most  deadly  notions 
of  what  is  contained  in  that  book — as,  for  instance,  besides  the 
one  in  hand,  that  God  approved  of  all  the  sly  tricks  of  Jacob — 
for  was  not  he  the  religious  one  of  the  brothers,  and  did  not 
all  his  tricks  succeed  ?  They  are  not  able  without  help  to 
regard  the  history  broadly,  and  see  that  just  because  of  this 
bad  that  was  in  him,  he  had  to  pass  through  a  life  of  varied 
and  severe  suffering,  punished  in  the  vices  which  his  children 
inherited  from  himself,  in  order  that  the  noble  part  of  his 
nature  might  be  burned  clean  of  the  filth  that  clung  to  it. 

Such  was  Mr.  Kitely's  tenderness  over  his  daughter,  increased 
by  some  signs  he  had  begun  to  see  of  the  return  of  an  affection 
of  the  brain  from  which  he  had  been  on  the  point  of  losing 
her  some  years  before,  that  he  made  no  further  opposition, 
but,  rising  again,  brought  an  old  "breeches  Bible  "from  a 
shelf,  and,  taking  her  once  more  on  his  knee,  supported  her 
with  one  hand  and  held  the  book  with  the  other. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  one  chapter  from  another,"  reflected 
Mr.  Kitely  aloud.  "I  wonder  where  the  child  would  like  me 
to  read.     I'm  sure  I  can't  tell  what  to  read." 

"Read  about  Somebody,"  said  Mattie. 

"  From  the  peculiar  expression  she  gave  to  the  word,  her 
father  guessed  at  her  meaning,  and  opening  the  gospel  part  of 
the  book  at  random,  began  to  read. 

He  read,  from  the  Gospel  by  St.  Matthew,  the  story  of  the 
Transfiguration,  to  which  Mattie  listened  without  word  or 
motion.  He  then  went  on  to  the  following  story  of  the  luna- 
tic and  apparently  epileptic,  boy.  As  soon  as  he  began  to  read 
the  account  of  how  the  child  was  vexed,  Mattie  said  conclu- 
sively : 

"  That  was  Syne,  /know  him.  He's  been  at  it  for  a  long 
time." 

"'And  Jesus  rebuked  the  devil;  and  he  departed  out  of 
him  ;  and  the  child  was  cured  from  that  very  hour,' "  the 
bookseller  went  on  reading  in  a  subdued  voice,  partly  because 
he  sat  in  his  shop  with  the  door  open,  partly  because  not 
even  he  could  read  "the  ancient  story,  ever  new  "without 
feeling  a  something  he  could  not  have  quite  accounted  for  if 


114  Guild  Court. 

ho  had  thought  of  trying.  But  the  moment  he  had  read  those 
words,  Mattio  cried : 

"There,  I  knew  it!" 

It  must  he  remembered  that  Mattie  had  not  read  much  of 
the  New  Testament,  Mr.  Spelt  alone  had  led  her  to  read  any. 
Everything  came  new  to  her,  therefore  ;  every  word  was  like 
the  rod  of  Moses  that  drew  the  waters  of  response. 

"What  did  you  know,  princess  ?"  asked  her  father. 

"  I  knew  that  Somebody  would  make  him  mind  what  he  was 
about — I  did.  I  wonder  if  he  let  a  flash  of  that  light  out  on 
him  that*he  shut  up  inside  him  again.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
that  was  ifc.  I  know  Syne  couldn't  stand  that — no,  not  for  a 
moment.     I  think  I'll  go  to  bed,  Mr.  Kitely." 


CHAPTEE   XVI. 

ON"   THE  EIVEK. 

Notwithstanding  the  good-humored  answer  Thomas  had 
made  to  Mattie,  her  words  stuck  to  him  and  occasioned  him 
a  little  discomfort.  For  if  the  bookseller's  daughter,  whose 
shop  lay  between  the  counting-house  and  the  court,  knew  so 
well  of  his  visits  to  Lucy,  how  could  he  hope  that  they  would 
long  remain  concealed  from  other  and  far  more  dangerous 
eyes.  This  thought  oppressed  him  so  much,  that  instead  of 
paying  his  usual  visit  to  Mr.  Molken,  he  went  to  Mrs.  Boxall's 
at  once.  There,  after  greetings,  he  threw  himself  on  the 
cushions  of  the  old  settle,  and  was  gloomy.  Lucy  looked  at 
him  with  some  concern.  Mrs.  Boxall  murmured  something 
about  his  being  in  the  doldrums — a  phrase  she  had  learned 
from  her  son  John. 

"  Let's  go  out,  Lucy,"  said  Thomas ;  "  it  is  so  sultry." 

Lucy  was  quite  ready  in  herself  to  comply.  For  one  reason, 
she  had  something  upon  her  mind  about  which  she  wanted  to 
talk  to  him.     But  she  objected. 

"  My  grandmother  is  not  fit  to  be  left  alone,  Thomas,"  she 
said,  regretfully. 

"  Oh  !  ah  ! "  said  Thomas.  .  ,, 

"Never  mind  me,  child,"  interposed  the  old  woman. 
' '  You'll  make  me  wish  myself  in  my  grave,  if  you  make  me 


On  the  River.  115 

come  between  young  people.  You  go,  my  dear,  and  never 
mind  me.     You  needn't  be  gone  a  great  while,  you  know." 

"Oh,  no,  grannie;  I'll  be  back  in  an  hour,  or  less,  if  you 
like,"  said  Lucy,  hastening  to  put  on  her  bonnet. 

"No,  no,  my  dear.  An  hour's  in  reason.  Anything  in 
reason,  you  know." 

So  Lucy  made  the  old  lady  comfortable  in  her  arm-chair, 
and  went  out  with  Thomas. 

The  roar  of  the  city  had  relaxed.  There  would  be  no  more 
blocks  in  G-racechurch  Street  that  night.  There  was  little 
smoke  in  the  air,  only  enough  to  clothe  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's 
in  a  faintly  rosy  garment,  tinged  from  the  west,  where  the  sun 
was  under  a  cloud.  The  huge  mass  looked  ethereal,  melted 
away  as  to  a  shell  of  thicker  air  against  a  background  of  slate- 
color,  where  a  wind  was  gathering  to  flow  at  sunset  through 
the  streets  and  lanes,  cooling  them  from  the  heat  of  the  day, 
of  the  friction  of  iron  and  granite,  of  human  effort,  and  the 
thousand  fires  that  prepared  the  food  of  the  city-dining  popu- 
lation. Crossing  the  chief  thoroughfares,  they  went  down  the 
lanes  leading  to  the  river.  Here  they  passed  through  a  sultry 
region  of  aromatic  fragrance,  where  the  very  hooks  that  hung 
from  cranes  in  doorways  high  above  the  ground,  seemed  to 
retain  something  of  the  odor  of  the  bales  they  had  lifted  from 
the  wagons  below  during  the  hot  sunshine  that  drew  out  their 
imprisoned  essences.  By  yet  closer  ways  they  went  toward  the 
river,  descending  still,  and  at  length,  by  a  short  wooden  stair, 
and  a  long  wooden  way,  they  came  on  a  floating  pier.  There 
the  wind  blew  sweet  and  cooling  and  very  grateful,  for  the 
summer  was  early  and  fervid.  Down  into  the  east  the  river 
swept  away,  somber  and  sullen,  to  gurgle  blindly  through  the 
jungle  of  masts  that  lay  below  the  bridge  and  crossed  the  hori- 
zontal lines  of  the  sky  with  their  delicate  spars,  and  yet  more 
delicate  cordage.  Little  did  Thomas  think  that  one  of  those 
masts  rose  from  a  vessel  laden,  one  might  say,  with  his  near, 
though  not  his  final  fate — a  fate  that  truth  might  have  averted, 
but  which  the  very  absence  of  truth  made  needful  and  salutary. 
A  boat  was  just  starting  up  the  river  toward  the  light. 

"Let's  have  a  blow,"  said  Thomas. 

"  That  will  be  delightful,"  answered  Lucy,  and  they  went 
on  board.  First  one  wheel,  then  the  other,  then  both  to- 
gether, dashed  the  Stygian  waters  of  the  Thames  into  a  white 
fury,  and  they  were  moving  up  the  stream.  They  went  for- 
ward into  the  bows  of  the  boat  to  get  clear  of  the  smoke,  and 
sat  down.     There  were  so  few  on  board  that  they  could  talk 


116  Guild  Court. 

without  being  overheard.  But  they  sat  silent  for  some  time  ; 
the  stillness  of  the  sky  seemed  to  have  sunk  into  their  hearts. 
For  that  was  as  pure  over  their  heads  as  if  there  had  been  no 
filthy  Thames  beneath  their  feet  ;  and  its  light  and  color  illu- 
minated the  surface  of  the  river,  which  was  not  yet  so  vile  that 
it  could  not  reflect  the  glory  that  fell  upon  its  face.  The  tide 
was  against  them,  and  with  all  the  struggles  of  the  little 
steamer  they  made  but  slow  way  up  the  dark,  hurrying  water. 
Lucy  sat  gazing  at  the  banks  of  the  river,  where  the  mighty 
city  on  either  hand  has  declined  into  sordid  meanness,  skele- 
ton exposure  ;  where  the  struggles  of  manufacture  and  com- 
merce are  content  to  abjure  their  own  decencies  for  the  sake 
of  the  greater  gain.  Save  where  the  long  line  of  Somerset 
House,  and  the  garden  of  the  Temple  asserted  the  ancient 
dignity  of  order  and  cleanliness,  the  whole  looked  like  a  mean, 
tattered,  draggled  fringe  upon  a  rich  garment.  Then  she 
turned  her  gaze  down  on  the  river,  which,  as  if  ashamed  of 
the  condition  into  which  it  had  fallen  from  its  first  estate, 
crawled  fiercely  away  to  hide  itself  in  the  sea. 

"  How  different,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  Thomas,  who  had 
been  sitting  gazing  at  her  all  the  time  that  she  contemplated 
the  shore  and  the  river — '"  How  different  things  would  be  if 
they  were  only  clean  !  " 

"Yes,  indeed,"  returned  Thomas.  "Think  what  it  would 
be  to  see  the  fishes — the  salmon,  say — shooting  about  in  clear 
water  under  us,  like  so  many  silver  fishes  in  a  crystal  globe  ! 
If  people  were  as  fond  of  the  cleanliness  you  want  as  they  are 
of  money,  things  would  look  very  different  indeed  ! " 

I  have  said  that  Thomas  loved  Lucy  more  and  more.  Partly 
a  cause,  partly  a  consequence  of  this,  he  had  begun  to  find  out 
that  there  was  a  poetic  element  in  her,  and  he  flattered  him- 
self that  he  had  developed  it.  No  doubt  he  had  had  a  share 
in  its  development,  but  it  was  of  a  deeper,  truer,  simpler  kind 
than  his  own,  and  would  never  have  been  what  it  was,  in  rap- 
port always  with  the  facts  of  nature  and  life,  if  it  had  been 
only  a  feminine  response  to  his.  Men  like  women  to  reflect 
them,  no  doubt ;  but  the  woman  who  can  only  reflect  a  man, 
and  is  nothing  in  herself,  will  never  be  of  much  service  to 
him.  The  woman  who  cannot  stand  alone  is  not  likely  to 
make  either  a  good  wife  or  mother.  She  may  be  a  pleasant 
companion  so  far  as  the  intercourse  of  love-making  goes,  no 
doubt — scarcely  more  ;  save,  indeed,  the  trials  that  ensue  upon 
marriage  bring  out  the  power  latent  in  her.  But  the  remark 
with  which  Thomas  responded  to  Lucy  was  quite  beyond  his 


On  the  Paver.  117 

usual  strain.  He  had  a  far  finer  nature  underneath  than  his 
education  had  allowed  to  manifest  itself,  and  the  circumstances 
in  which  he  was  at  the  moment  were  especially  favorable  to 
his  best.  Casca,  on  his  first  appearance  in  Julius  Ccesar,  talks 
blunt  and  snarling  prose  :  in  the  very  next  scene,  which  is  a 
fearfully  magnificent  thunder-storm,  he  speaks  poetry.  "He 
was  quick  mettle  when  he  went  to  school,"  and  the  circum- 
stances brought  it  out. 

"  I  wish  the  world  was  clean,  Thomas,  all  through,"  said 
Lucy. 

Thomas  did  not  reply.  His  heart  smote  him.  Those  few 
words  went  deeper  than  all  Mr.  Simon's  sermons,  public  and 
private.  For  a  long  time  he  had  not  spoken  a  word  about  re- 
ligion to  Lucy.  Nor  had  what  he  said  ever  taken  any  hold 
upon  her  intellect,  although  it  had  upon  her  conscience  ;  for, 
not  having  been  brought  up  to  his  vocabulary,  and  what  might 
be  called  the  technical  phrases  if  not  slang  of  his  religion,  it 
had  been  to  her  but  a  vague  sound,  which  yet  she  received  as 
a  reminder  of  duty.  Some  healthy  religious  teaching  would 
be  of  the  greatest  value  to  her  now.  But  Mr.  Potter  provided 
no  food  beyond  the  established  fare  ;  and  whatever  may  be 
said  about  the  sufficiency  of  the  church-service,  and  the  use- 
lessness  of  preaching,  I  for  one  believe  that  a  dumb  ass,  if  the 
Lord  only  opens  his  mouth,  may  rebuke  much  madness  of 
prophets,  and  priests  too.  But  where  there  is  neither  honesty 
nor  earnestness,  as  in  the  case  of  Mr.  Potter,  the  man  is  too 
much  of  an  ass  for  even  the  Lord  to  open  his  mouth  to  any 
useful  purpose.  His  heart  has  to  be  opened  first,  and  that 
takes  time  and  trouble. 

Finding  that  Thomas  remained  silent,  Lucy  looked  into  his 
face,  and  saw  that  he  was  troubled.  This  brought  to  the 
point  of  speech  the  dissatisfaction  with  himself  which  had 
long  been  moving  restlessly  and  painfully  in  his  heart,  and  of 
which  the  quiet  about  him,  the  peace  of  the  sky,  and  that 
sense  of  decline  and  coming  repose,  which  invades  even  the 
heart  of  London  with  the  sinking  sun,  had  made  him  more 
conscious  than  he  had  yet  been. 

"Oh,  Lucy,"  he  said,  "I  wish  you  would  help  me  to  be 
good." 

To  no  other  could  he  have  said  so.  Mr.  Simon,  for  instance, 
aroused  all  that  was  most  contrarious  in  him.  But  Lucy  at  this 
moment  seemed  so  near  to  him  that  before  her  he  could  be 
humble  without  humiliation,  and  could  even  enjoy  the  con- 
fession of  weakness  implied  in  his  appeal  to  her  for  aid. 


118  Guild  Court. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  wise  kind  of  wonder  in  her  look. 
For  a  moment  she  was  silent. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  I  can  help  yon,  Thomas,  for  you  know 
better  about  all  such  things  than  I  do.  But  there  is  one  thing 
I  want  very  much  to  speak  to  you  about,  because  it  makes  me 
unhappy — rather — not  very,  you  know." 

She  laid  his  hand  upon  his.  He  looked  at  her  lovingly. 
She  was  encouraged,  and  continued  : 

"  I  don't  like  this  way  of  going  on,  Thomas.  I  never  quite 
liked  it,  but  I've  been  thinking  more  about  it,  lately.  I 
thought  you  must  know  best,  but  I  am  not  satisfied  with 
myself  at  all  about  it." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Lucy  ?"  asked  Thomas,  his  heart  be- 
ginning already  to  harden  at  the  approach  of  definite  blame. 
It  was  all  very  well  for  him  to  speak  as  if  he  might  be  improved 
— it  was  another  thing  for  Lucy  to  do  so. 

"  Do  not  be  vexed  with  me,  Thomas.  You  must  know  what 
I  mean.  I  wish  your  mother  knew  all  about  it,"  she  added, 
hastily,  after  a  pause.  And  then  her  face  flushed  red  as  a 
sunset. 

"  She'll  know  all  about  it  in  good  time,"  returned  Thomas, 
testily ;  adding,  in  an  undertone,  as  if  he  did  not  mean  to 
press  the  remark,  although  he  wanted  her  to  hear  it :  "  You 
do  not  know  my  mother,  or  you  would  not  be  so  anxious  for 
her  to  know  all  about  it." 

"  Couldn't  you  get  your  father  to  tell  her,  then,  and  make 
it  easier  for  you  ?  " 

"My  father,"  answered  Thomas,  coolly,  " would  turn  me 
out  of  the  house  if  I  didn't  give  you  up ;  and  as  I  don't  mean 
to  do  that,  and  don't  want  to  be  turned  out  of  the  house  just 
at  present,  when  I  have  nowhere  else  to  go,  I  don't  want  to 
tell  him." 

"I  can't  go  on  in  this  way,  then.  Besides,  they  are  sure  to 
hear  of  it,  somehow." 

"  Oh,  no,  they  won't.     Who's  to  tell  them  ?  " 

"Don't  suppose  I've  been  listening,  Tom,  because  I  heard 
your  last  words,"  said  a  voice  behind  them — that  of  Mr. 
Wither.  "I  haven't  been  watching  you,  but  I  have  been 
watching  for  an  opportunity  of  telling  you  that  Stopper  is 
keeping  far  too  sharp  a  look-out  on  you  to  mean  you  any  good 
by  it.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Boxall,"  he  resumed,  taking 
off  his  hat.  "I  fear  I  have  been  rude  ;  but,  as  I  say,  I  was 
anxious  to  tell  Mr.  Worboise  to  be  cautious.'  I  don't  see  why 
a  fellow  should  get  into  a  scrape  for  want  of  a  hint. " 


On  the  River.  119 

The  manner  with  which  Wither  spoke  to  her  made  poor 
Lucy  feel  that  there  was  not  merely  something  unfitting,  but 
something  even  disreputable,  in  the  way  her  relation  to  Thomas 
was  kept  up.  She  grew  as  pale  as  death,  rose,  and  turned  to 
the  side  of  the  vessel,  and  drew  her  veil  nervously  over  her  face. 

"It's  no  business  of  mine,  of  course,  Tom.  But  what  I  tell 
you  is  true.  Though  if  you  take  my  advice,"  said  Wither, 
and  here  he  dropped  his  voice  to  a  whisper,  "this  connection 
is  quite  as  fit  a  one  to  cut  as  the  last ;  and  the  sooner  you  do 
it  the  better,  for  it'll  make  a  devil  of  a  row  with  old  Boxall. 
You  ought  to  think  of  the  girl,  you  know.  Your  own  gov- 
ernor's your  own  lookout.  There's  none  of  it  any  business  of 
mine,  you  know." 

He  turned  with  a  nod  and  went  aft ;  for  the  steamer  was 
just  drawing  in  to  the  Hungerford  pier,  where  he  had  to  go 
ashore. 

For  a  few  minutes  not  a  word  passed  between  Thomas  and 
Lucy.  A  sudden  cloud  had  fallen  upon  them.  They  must 
not  go  on  this  way,  but  what  other  way  were  they  to  take  ? 
They  stood  side  by  side,  looking  into  the  water,  Thomas  hu- 
miliated and  Lucy  disgraced.  There  was  no  comfort  to  be  got 
out  of  that  rushing  blackness,  and  the  mud  banks  grew  wider 
and  wider. 

Lucy  was  the  first  to  speak,  for  she  was  far  more  capable 
than  Tom. 

"  We  must  go  ashore  at  the  next  pier,"  she  said. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Tom,  as  if  he  had  been  stunned  into  sul- 
lenness.  "If  you  want  to  get  rid  of  me  because  of  what  that 
fellow  said —  " 

"  Oh,  Tom  !  "  said  Lucy,  and  burst  out  crying. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want,  Lucy  ?" 

"  We  must  part,  Tom,"  sobbed  Lucy. 

"Nonsense  !  "  said  Tom,  nearly  crying  himself,  for  a  great, 
painful  lump  had  risen  in  his  throat. 

"  We  can  love  each  other  all  the  same,"  said  Lucy,  still  sob- 
bing ;  "  only  you  must  not  come  to  see  me  any  more — that  is 
— I  do  not  mean — never  any  more  at  all — but  till  you  have 
told  them — all  about  it.  I  don't  mean  now,  but  some  time, 
you  know.     When  will  you  be  of  age,  Tom  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that  makes  no  difference.  As  long's  I'm  dependent, 
it's  all  the  same.  I  wish  I  was  my  own  master.  I  should  soon 
let  them  see  I  didn't  care  what  they  said." 

Silence  again  followed,  during  which  Lucy  tried  in  vain  to 
stop  her  tears  by  wiping  them  away.     A  wretched  feeling 


120  Guild  Court 

awoke  in  her  that  Thomas  was  not  manly,  could  not  resolve — 
or  rather,  could  not  help  her  when  she  would  do  the  right 
thing.  She  would  have  borne  anything  rather  than  that.  It 
put  her  heart  in  a  rise. 

The  boat  stopped  at  the  Westminster  pier.  They  went  on 
shore.  The  sun  was  down,  and  the  fresh  breeze  that  blew, 
while  it  pleasantly  cooled  the  hot  faces  that  moved  westward 
from  their  day's  work,  made  Lucy  almost  shiver  with  cold. 
For  loss  had  laid  hold  of  her  heart.  They  walked  up  Parlia- 
ment Street.  Thomas  felt  that  he  must  say  something,  but 
what  he  should  say  he  could  not  think.  He  always  thought 
what  he  should  say — never  what  he  should  do. 

"Lucy,  dear,"  he  said  at  last,  "we  won't  make  up  our 
minds  to-night.  Wait  till  I  see  you  next.  I  shall  have  time 
to  think  about  it  before  then.  I  will  be  a  match  for  that 
sneaking  rascal,  Stopper,  yet." 

Lucy  felt  inclined  to  say  that  to  sneak  was  no  way  to  give 
sneaking  its  own.  But  she  said  neither  that  nor  anything 
else. 

They  got  into  an  omnibus  at  Charing  Cross,  and  returned — 
deafened,  stupefied,  and  despondent—into  the  city.  They 
parted  at  Lucy's  door,  and  Thomas  went  home,  already  much 
later  than  usual. 

What  should  he  do  ?  He  resolved  upon  nothing,  and  did 
the  worst  thing  he  could  have  done.     He  lied. 

"You  are  very  late  to-night,  Thomas,"  said  his  mother. 
"  Have  you  been  all  this  time  with  Mr.  Moloch  ?" 

"Yes,  mother,"  answered  Thomas. 

And  when  he  was  in  bed  he  comforted  himself  by  saying 
there  was  no  such  person  as  Mr.  Moloch. 

When  Lucy  went  to  bed,  she  prayed  to  God  in  sobs  and  cries 
of  pain.  Hitherto  she  had  believed  in  Thomas  without  a  ques- 
tion crossing  the  disk  of  her  faith ;  but  now  she  had  begun  to 
doubt,  and  the  very  fact  that  she  could  doubt  was  enough  to 
make  her  miserable,  even  if  there  had  been  no  ground  for  the 
doubt.  My  readers  must  remember  that  no  one  had  attempted 
to  let  her  into  the  secrets  of  his  character  as  I  have  done  with 
them.  His  beautiful  face,  pleasant  manners,  self-confidence, 
and,  above  all,  her  love,  had  blinded  her  to  his  faults.  For, 
although  I  do  not  in  the  least  believe  that  Love  is  blind,  yet  I 
must  confess  that,  like  kittens  and  some  other  animals,  he  has 
his  blindness  nine  days  or  more,  as  it  may  be,  from  his  birth. 
But  once  she  had  begun  to  suspect,  she  found  ground  for  sus- 
picion enough.     She  had  never  known  grief  before — not  even 


On  the  River.  121 

when  her  mother  died — for  death  has  not  anything  despicable, 
and  Thomas  had. 

What  Charles  Wither  had  told  Thomas  was  true  enough. 
Mr.  Stopper  was  after  him.  Ever  since  that  dinner-party  at 
Mr.  Boxall's  he  had  hated  him,  and  bided  his  time. 

Mr.  Stopper  was  a  man  of  forty,  in  whose  pine-apple  whisk- 
ers and  bristly  hair  the  first  white  streaks  of  autumn  had 
begun  to  show  themselves.  He  had  entered  the  service  of 
Messrs.  Blunt  &  Baker  some  five-and-twenty  years  before,  and 
had  gradually  risen  through  all  the  intervening  positions  to 
his  present  post.  Within  the  last  year,  moved  by  prudential 
considerations,  he  had  begun  to  regard  the  daughters  of  his 
principal  against  the  background  of  possible  marriage  ;  and  as 
he  had  hitherto,  from  motives  of  the  same  class,  resisted  all 
inclinations  in  that  direction,  with  so  much  the  more  force 
did  his  nature  rush  into  the  channel  which  the  consent  of  his 
selfishness  opened  for  the  indulgence  of  his  affections.  For 
the  moment  he  saw  Mary  Boxall  with  this  object  in  view,  he 
fell  in  love  with  her  after  the  fashion  of  such  a  man,  beginning 
instantly  to  build,  not  castles,  but  square  houses  in  the  air,  in 
the  dining-rooms  especially  of  which  her  form  appeared  in 
gorgeous  and  somewhat  matronly  garments  amid  ponderous 
mahogany,  seated  behind  the  obscuration  of  tropical  plants  at 
a  table  set  out  a  la  Russe.  His  indignation,  when  he  entered 
the  drawing-room  after  Mr.  Boxall's  dinner,  and  saw  Thomas 
in  the  act  of  committing  the  indiscretion  recorded  in  that  part 
of  my  story,  passed  into  silent  hatred  when  he  found  that 
while  his  attentions  were  slighted,  those  of  Thomas,  in  his  eyes 
a  mere  upstart — for  he  judged  everything  in  relation  to  the 
horizon  of  Messrs.  Blunt  &  Baker,  and  every  man  in  relation 
to  himself,  seated  upon  the  loftiest  summit  within  the  circle 
of  that  horizon — not  even  offered,  but  only  dropped  at  her  feet 
in  passing,  were  yet  accepted. 

Among  men  Mr.  Stopper  was  of  the  bull-dog  breed,  saga- 
cious, keen-scented,  vulgar,  and  inexorable ;  capable  of  much 
within  the  range  of  things  illuminated  by  his  own  interests, 
capable  of  nothing  beyond  it.  And  now  one  of  his  main  ob- 
jects was  to  catch  some  scent — for  the  bull-dog  has  an  excel- 
lent nose — of  Thomas's  faults  or  failings,  and  follow  such  up 
the  wind  of  his  prosperity,  till  he  should  have  a  chance  of 
pulling  him  down  at  last.  His  first  inclination  toward  this 
revenge  was  strengthened  and  elevated  into  an  imagined  execu- 
tion of  justice  when  Mary  fell  ill,  and  it  oozed  out  that  her 
illness  had  not  a  little  to  do  with  some  behavior  of  Thomas's. 


122  Guild  Court. 

Hence  it  came  that,  both  consciously  and  unconsciously,  Mr. 
Stopper  was  watching  the  unfortunate  youth,  though  so  cau- 
tious was  Thomas  that  he  had  not  yet  discovered  anything  of 
which  he  could  make  a  definite  use.  Nor  did  he  want  to 
interrupt  Thomas's  projects  before  he  found  that  they  put  him 
in  his  power. 

So  here  was  a  weak  and  conceited  youth  of  fine  faculties  and 
fine  impulses,  between  the  malign  aspects  of  two  opposite  stars — 
watched,  that  is,  and  speculated  upon  by  two  able  and  unprin- 
cipled men ;  the  one,  Mr.  Molken,  searching  him  and  ingrati- 
ating himself  with  him,  "to  the  end  to  know  how  to  worke 
him,  or  winde  him,  or  governe  him,"  which,  Lord  Bacon  goes 
on  to  say,  "proceedeth  from  a  heart  that  is  double  and  cloven, 
and  not  entyre  and  ingenuous ; "  the  other,  Mr.  Stopper, 
watching  his  conduct,  not  for  the  sake  of  procuring  advantage 
to  himself,  but  injury  to  Thomas.  The  one  sought  to  lead 
him  astray,  that  he  might  rob  him  in  the  dark ;  the  other 
sought  a  chance  of  knocking  him  down,  that  he  might  leave 
him  lying  in  the  ditch.  And  they  soon  began  to  play  into 
each  other's  hands. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

CAPTAIN  BOXALL'S   PKOPOSAL. 

About  three  weeks  before  the  occurrences  last  recorded,  the 
following  conversation  took  place  between  Richard  and  John 
Boxall  over  their  wine  : 

"  "I  tell  you  what,  brother,"  said  the  captain,  "you're  addling 
good  brains  with  overwork.  You  won't  make  half  so  much 
money  if  you're  too  greedy  after  it.  You  don't  look  the  same 
fellow  you  used  to." 

"I  hope  I'm  not  too  greedy  after  money,  John.  But  it's 
my  business,  as  your's  is  to  sail  your  ship." 

"  Yes,  yes.  I  can't  sail  my  ship  too  well,  nor  you  attend  to 
your  business  too  well.  But  if  I  was  to  sail  two  ships  instead 
of  one,  or  if  I  was  to  be  on  deck  instead  of  down  at  my  dinner 
when  she  was  going  before  the  wind  in  the  middle  of  the 
Atlantic,  I  shouldn't  do  my  best  when  it  came"  on  to  blow  hard 
in  the  night." 


Captain  BoxaWs  Proposal.  123 

"  That's  all  very  true.  But  I  dou't  think  it  applies  to  me. 
I  never  miss  my  dinner,  by  any  chance." 

"  Don't  you  turn  your  blind  eye  on  my  signal,  Dick.  You 
know  what  I  mean  well  enough.  I've  got  a  proposal  to  make — 
the  jolliest  thing  in  the  world." 

"  Go  on.     I'm  listening." 

"Mary  ain't  quite  so  well  again — is  she  now  ?" 

ft  Well,  I  don't  think  she's  been  getting  on  so  fast.  I  sup- 
pose it's  the  spring  weather." 

"  Why,  you  may  call  it  summer  now.  But  she  ain't  as  I 
should  like  to  see  her,  the  darling." 

"Well,  no.  I  must  confess  I'm  sometimes  rather  uneasy 
about  her." 

"And there's  Jane.     She  don't  look  at  home,  somehow." 

For  some  time  Richard  had  been  growing  more  and  more 
uneasy  as  the  evidence  of  his  daughter's  attachment  to  Charles 
Wither  became  plainer.  Both  he  and  his  wife  did  the  best 
they  could  to  prevent  their  meeting,  but  having  learned  a  lit- 
tle wisdom  from  the  history  of  his  father's  family,  and  know- 
ing well  the  hastiness  of  his  own  temper,  he  had  as  yet  man- 
aged to  avoid  any  open  conflict  with  his  daughter,  who  he 
knew  had  inherited  his  own  stubbornness.  He  had  told  his 
brother  nothing  of  this  second  and  now  principal  source  of 
family  apprehension  ;  and  the  fact  that  John  saw  that  all  was 
not  right  with  Jane,  greatly  increased  his  feeling  of  how  much 
things  were  going  wrong.  He  made  no  reply,  however,  but 
sat  waiting  what  was  to  follow.  Accumulating  his  arguments 
the  captain  went  on. 

"  And  there's  your  wife  ;  she's  had  a  headache  almost  every 
day  since  I  came  to  the  house." 

"Well,  what  are  you  driving  at,  John  ?"  said  his  brother, 
with  the  more  impatience  that  he  knew  all  John  said  was  true. 

"What  I'm  driving  at  is  this,"  answered  the  captain, 
bringing-to  suddenly.  "You  must  all  make  this  next  voyage 
in  my  clipper.     It'll  do  you  all  a  world  o'  good,  and  me  too." 

"  Nonsense,  John,"  said  Eichard,  feeling  however  that  a 
faint  light  dawned  through  the  proposal. 

"  Don't  call  it  nonsense  till  you've  slept  upon  it,  Dick.  The 
ship's  part  mine,  and  I  can  make  it  easy  for  you.  You'll  have 
to  pay  a  little  passage-money,  just  to  keep  me  right  with  the 
rest  of  the  owners  ;  but  that  won't  be  much,  and  you're  no 
screw,  though  I  did  say  you  were  too  greedy  after  the  money. 
I  believe  it's  not  the  money  so  much  as  the  making  of  it  that 
fills  your  head." 


124:  Guild  Court. 

"Still,  you  wouldn't  have  me  let  the  business  go  to  the 
dogs?" 

"No  fear  of  that,  with  Stopper  at  the  head  of  affairs.  I'll 
tell  you  what  you  must  do.     You  must  take  him  in." 

"Into  partnership,  do  you  mean  ?"  said  Eichard,  his  tone 
expressing  no  surprise,  for  he  had  thought  of  this  before. 

"  Yes,  I  do.  You'll  have  to  do  it  some  day,  and  the  sooner 
the  better.  If  you  don't,  you'll  lose  him,  and  that  you'll  find 
won't  be  a  mere  loss.  That  man'll  make  a  dangerous  enemy. 
Where  he  bites  he'll  hold.  And  now's  a  good  time  to  serve 
yourself  and  him  too. " 

"  Perhaps  you're  right,  brother,"  answered  the  merchant, 
emptying  his  glass  of  claret  and  filling  it  again  instantly,  an 
action  indicating  a  certain  perturbed  hesitation  not  in  the 
least  common  to  him.  "  I'll  turn  it  over  in  my  mind.  I  cer- 
tainly should  not  be  sorry  to  have  a  short  holiday.  I  haven't 
had  one  to  speak  of  for  nearly  twenty  years,  I  do  believe." 

John  judged  it  better  not  to  press  him.  He  believed  from 
what  he  knew  of  himself  and  his  brother  too  that  good  advice 
was  best  let  alone  to  work  its  own  effects.  He  turned  the  con- 
versation to  something  indifferent. 

But  after  this  many  talks  followed.  Mrs.  Boxall,  of  course, 
was  consulted.  Although  she  shrunk  from  the  thought  of  a 
sea  voyage,  she  yet  saw  in  the  proposal  a  way  out  of  many  dif- 
ficulties, especially  as  giving  room  for  time  to  work  one  of  his 
especial  works — that  of  effacement.  So  between  the  three  the 
whole  was  arranged  before  either  of  the  young  people  was 
spoken  to  on  the  subject.  Jane  heard  it  with  a  rush  of  blood 
to  her  heart  that  left  her  dark  face  almost  livid.  Mary  re- 
ceived the  news  gladly,  even  merrily,  though  a  slight  paleness 
followed  and  just  indicated  that  she  regarded  the  journey  as 
the  symbol  and  sign  of  severed  bonds.  Julia,  a  plump  child  of 
six,  upon  whose  condition  no  argument  for  the  voyage  could 
be  founded,  danced  with  joy  at  the  idea  of  going  in  Uncle 
John's  ship.  Mr.  Stopper  threw  no  difficulty  in  the  way  of 
accepting  a  partnership  in  the  concern,  and  thus  matters  were 
arranged. 

John  Boxall  had  repeatedly  visited  his  mother  during  the 
six  weeks  he  spent  at  his  brother's  house.  He  seldom  saw 
Lucy,  however,  because  of  her  engagement  at  the  Morgen- 
sterns',  until  her  grandmother's  sickness  kept  her  more  at 
home.  Then,  whether  it  was  that  Lucy  expected  her  uncle 
to  be  prejudiced  against  her,  or  that  he  really  was  so  preju- 
diced, I  do  not  know,  but  the  two  did  not  take  much  to  each 


The  Tempter.  125 

other.  Lucy  considered  her  uncle  a  common  and  rough-looking 
sailor  ;  John  Boxall  called  his  niece  a  fine  lady.  And  so  they 
parted. 

On  the  same  day  on  -which  Thomas  and  Lucy  had  their  hloiv 
on  the  river,  the  Ningpo  had  cleared  out  of  St.  Katharine's 
Dock,  and  was  lying  in  the  Upper  Pool,  all  but  ready  to  drop 
down  with  the  next  tide  to  Gravesend,  where  she  was  to  take 
her  passengers  on  board. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE    TEMPTEE. 

The  next  day,  Thomas  had  made  up  his  mind  not  to  go 
near  Guild  Court ;  but  in  the  afternoon  Mr.  Stopper  himself 
sent  him  to  bring  an  old  ledger  from  the  floor  above  Mrs. 
Boxall's.  As  he  got  down  from  his  perch,  and  proceeded  to  get 
his  hat — 

"  There's  no  use  in  going  round  such  a  way,"  said  Mr.  Stop- 
per. "  Mr.  Boxall's  not  in ;  you  can  go  through  his  room. 
Here's  the  key  of  the  door.  Only  mind  you  lock  it  when  you 
come  back." 

The  key  used  to  lie  in  Mr.  Boxall's  drawer,  but  now  Mr. 
Stoper  took  it  from  his  own.  Thomas  was  uot  altogether 
pleased  at  the  change  of  approach,  though  why,  he  would 
hardly  have  been  able  to  tell.  Probably  he  felt  something  as 
a  miser  would  feel,  into  whose  treasure-cave  the  new  gallery  of 
a  neighboring  mine  threatened  to  break.  He  was,  as  it  were, 
exposed  upon  the  flank.  Annoyance  instantly  clouded  the 
expression  of  eagerness  which  he  had  not  been  able  to  conceal ; 
and  neither  the  light  nor  the  following  cloud  escaped  Mr. 
Stopper,  who,  although  the  region  of  other  men's  thoughts 
was  dark  as  pitch  to  him  in  the  usual  relation  he  bore  to 
them,  yet  the  moment  his  interests  or — rare  case — his  feelings 
brought  him  into  the  contact  of  opposition  with  any  man,  all 
the  man's  pregnable  points  lay  bare  before  him. 

Thomas  had  nothing  to  do  but  take  the  key  and  go.  He 
had  now  no  opportunity  of  spending  more  than  one  moment 
with  Lucy.  When  the  distance  was  of  some  length,  he  could 
cut  both  ways,  and  pocket  the  time  gained  ;  now  there  was 


126  Guild  Court. 

nothing  to  saye  upon.  Nevertheless,  he  sped  up  the  stairs  as 
if  he  would  overtake  old  Time  himself. 

Rendered  prudent,  or  cunning,  by  his  affections,  he  secured 
the  ordered  chaos  of  vellum  before  he  knocked  at  Mrs.  Boxall's 
door,  which  he  then  opened  without  waiting  for  the  response 
to  his  appeal. 

"Lucy!  Lucy! "he  said;  "I  have  but  one  half  minute, 
and  hardly  that." 

Lucy  appeared  with  the  rim  of  a  rainy  sunset  about  her  eyes. 
The  rest  of  her  face  was  still  as  a  day  that  belonged  to  not  one 
of  the  four  seasons — that  had  nothing  to  do. 

"If  you  have  forgotten  yesterday,  Thomas,  I  have  not," 
she  said. 

"  Oh  !  never  mind  yesterday,"  he  said.  "  I'm  coming  in 
to-night ;  and  I  can  stay  as  long  as  I  please.  My  father  and 
mother  are  gone  to  Folkestone,  and  there's  nobody  to  know 
when  I  go  home.     Isn't  it  jolly  ?  " 

And  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  scudded  like  Poppie. 
But  what  in  Poppie  might  be  graceful,  was  not  dignified  in 
Thomas  ;  and  I  fear  Lucy  felt  this,  when  he  turned  the  corner 
to  the  stair-case  with  the  huge  ledger  under  his  arm,  and  his 
coat  flying  out  behind  him.  But  she  would  nob  have  felt  it 
had  she  not  had  on  the  preceding  evening,  for  the  first  time, 
a  peep  into  his  character. 

As  he  reentered  the  counting-house  he  was  aware  of  the 
keen  glance  cast  at  him  by  Stopper,  and  felt  that  he  reddened. 
But  he  laid  the  ledger  on  the  desk  before  him,  and  perched 
again  with  as  much  indifference  as  he  could  assume. 

Wearily  the  hours  passed.  How  could  they  otherwise  pass 
with  figures,  figures  everywhere,  Stopper  right  before  him  at 
the  double  desk,  and  Lucy  one  story  removed  and  inaccessible  ? 
Some  men  would  work  all  the  better  for  knowing  their  treasure 
so  near,  but  Thomas  had  not  yet  reached  such  a  repose.  In- 
deed, he  did  not  yet  love  Lucy  well  enough  for  that.  People 
talk  about  loving  too  much  ;  for  my  part,  I  think  all  the  mis- 
chief comes  of  loving  too  little. 

The  dinner-hour  at  length  arrived.  Thomas,  however,  was 
not  in  the  way  of  attempting  to  see  Lucy  at  that  time.  He 
would  have  said  that  there  was  too  much  coming  and  going  of 
the  clerks  about  that  hour  :  I  venture  to  imagine  that  a  quiet 
enjoyment  of  his  dinner  had  something  to  do  with  it.  Now, 
although  I  can  well  enough  understand  a  young  fellow  in  love 
being  as  hungry  as  a  hawk,  I  cannot  quite  understand  his 
spending  an  hour  over  his  dinner  when  the  quarter  of  it  would 


The  Tempter.  127 

be  enough,  and  the  rest  might  give  him  if  but  one  chance  of 
one  peep  at  the  lady.  On  the  present  occasion,  however,  see- 
ing he  had  the  whole  evening  in  prospect,  Thomas  may  have 
been  quite  right  to  devote  himself  to  his  dinner,  the  news- 
paper, and  anticipation.  At  all  events,  he  betook  himself  to 
one  of  the  courts  off*  Cornhill,  and  ascended  to  one  of  those 
eating-houses  which  abound  in  London  city,  where  a  man  may 
generally  dine  well,  and  always  at  moderate  expense. 

Now  this  was  one  of  the  days  on  which  Thomas  usually  vis- 
ited Mr.  Molken.  But  as  he  had  missed  two  lessons,  the 
spider  had  become  a  little  anxious  about  his  fly,  and  knowing 
that  Thomas  went  to  dine  at  this  hour,  and  knowing  also 
where  he  went,  he  was  there  before  him,  and  on  the  outlook 
for  his  entrance.  This  was  not  the  sort  of  place  the  German 
generally  frequented.  He  was  more  likely  to  go  prowling 
about  Thames  Street  for  his  dinner ;  but  when  Thomas  en- 
tered, there  he  was,  signaling  to  him  to  take  his  place  beside  him. 

Thomas  did  not  see  that  in  the  dark  corner  of  an  opposite 
box  sat  Mr.  Stopper.  He  obeyed  the  signal,  and  a  steak  was 
presently  broiling  for  him  upon  the  gridiron  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room. 

"You  vas  not  come  fore  your  lesson  de  letst  time,  Mistare 
Verbose,"  said  Molken. 

"  No,"  answered  Thomas,  who  had  not  yet  made  a  confidant 
of  Mr.  Molken.     "I  was  otherwise  engaged." 

He  spoke  quite  carelessly. 

"  Ah  !  yes.     Oddervise,"  said  Molken,  and  said  no  more. 

Presently  he  broke  into  a  suppressed  laugh,  which  caused 
Thomas,  who  was  very  sensitive  as  to  his  personal  dignity,  to 
choke  over  his  tankard  of  bitter  ale,  with  which  he  was  con- 
soling himself  for  the  delay  of  his  steak. 

"What  is  it  you  find  so  amusing,  Mr.  Molken  ?"  he  asked. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  returned  Molken.  "  It  was  very  rude ; 
but  I  could  not  help  it.  I  will  tell  you  one  story  I  did  see  last 
night.     I  am  a  man  of  de  vorld,  as  you  know,  Mr.  Verbose. " 

My  reader  must  excuse  me  if  I  do  not  keep  to  the  repre- 
sentation of  the  fellow's  German-English.  It  is  hardly  worth 
doing,  and  I  am  doubtful,  besides,  whether  I  can  do  it  well. 

"lam  a  man  of  the  world,"  said  Molken,  "and  I  was  last 
night  in  one  of  those  shops,  what  you  call  them — paradise  ; 
no,  the  other  thing — hell — where  they  have  the  spinning 
thing — the  Roulette — and  the  Eouge  et  Noir,  and  ccetera.  I 
do  not  mean  to  say  that  I  was  gambling.  Oh,  no  !  I  was  at 
the  bar  having  a  glass  of  Judenlip,  when  lo  !  and  behold ! 


128  Guild  Court 

down  through  the  green  door,  with  a  burst,  comes  a  young 
man  I  knew.  He  was  like  yourself,  Mr.  Worboise,  a  clerk  in 
a  counting-house." 

Thomas  winced,  but  said  nothing.  He  regarded  his  busi- 
ness as  he  ought  to  have  regarded  himself,  namely,  as  some- 
thing to  be  ashamed  of. 

"  Well,  he  comes  up  to  me,  and  he  says,  '  Herr  Molken,  we 
are  old  friends ;  will  you  lend  me  a  sovereign  ? '  '  No/  I  said, 
'Mr.  — ,' — I  forget  the  young  man's  name,  but  I  did  know 
him — '  I  never  lend  money  for  gambling  purposes.  Get  the 
man  who  won  your  last  sovereign  to  lend  you  another.  For 
my  own  jtart,  I've  had  enough  of  that  sort  of  thing.'  For  you 
see,  Mr.  Thomas,  I  have  gambled  in  my  time — yes,  and  made 
money  by  it,  though  I  spent  it  as  foolishly  as  I  got  it.  You 
don't  think  I  would  spend  my  time  in  teaching  Ich  hake,  Du 
hast,  if  I  hadn't  given  up  gambling.  But  university  men, 
you  know,  learn  bad  habits." 

"  What  did  he  say  to  that  ?  "  asked  Thomas. 

"  He  swore  and  turned  away  as  if  he  was  choking.  But  the 
fact  was,  Mr.  Verbose,  I  hadn't  a  sovereign  in  my  possession. 
I  wasn't  going  to  tell  him  that.  But  if  I  had  had  one,  he 
should  have  had  it ;  for  I  can't  forget  the  glorious  excitement 
it  used  to  be  to  see  the  gold  lying  like  a  yellow  mole-hill  on  the 
table,  and  to  think  that  one  fortunate  turn  might  send  it  all 
into  your  own  pockets." 

"  But  he  didn't  choke,  did  he  ?"  said  Thomas,  weakly  try- 
ing to  be  clever. 

"  No.  And  I  will  tell  you  how  it  was  that  he  didn't.  '  By 
Jove  ! '  he  Gried.  Now  I  had  seen  him  fumbling  about  his 
waistcoat  as  if  he  would  tear  his  heart  out,  and  all  at  once  dive 
his  two  forefingers  into  a  little  pocket  that  was  meant  to  hold 
a  watch,  only  the  watch  had  gone  up  the  spout  long  ago.  '  By 
Jove  ! '  he  said — that's  the  right  swear,  isn't  it,  Mr.  Verbose  ? 
— and  then  he  rushed  through  the  green  door  again.  I  followed 
him,  for  I  wanted  to  see  what  he  was  after.  In  half  an  hour 
he  had  broken  the  bank.  He  had  found  a  sovereign  in  that 
little  pocket.  How  it  got  there  the  devil  only  knew.  He 
swept  his  money  into  his  pockets  and  turned  to  go.  I  saw 
the  people  of  the  house  getting  between  him  and  the  door, 
and  I  saw  one  of  the  fellows — I  knew  him — -who  had  lost 
money  all  the  evening,  going  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  him.  For 
those  gamblers  have  no  honor  in  them.  So  I  opened  the  door 
as  if  to  leave  the  room,  and  pretending  to  hesitate  as  if  I  had 
left  something,  kept  it  open,  and  made  a  sign  to  him  to  bolt, 


The  Tempter.  129 

which  he  understood  at  once,  and  was  down-stairs  in  a  mo- 
ment, and  I  after  him.  Now  let  me  tell  you  a  secret,"  con- 
tinued Molken,  leaning  across  the  table,  and  speaking  very- 
low  and  impressively — "  that  young  man  confessed  to  me  that 
same  evening,  that  when  I  refused  him  the  sovereign,  he  had 
just  lost  the  last  of  two  hundred  pounds  of  his  master's 
money.  To-day  I  hope  he  has  replaced  it  honestly,  as  he 
ought ;  for  his  winnings  that  night  came  to  more  than  seven 
hundred." 

"  But  he  was  a  thief,"  said  Thomas,  bluntly. 

"  Well,  so  he  was  ;  but  no  more  a  thief  than  many  a  re- 
spectable man  who  secures  his  own  and  goes  on  risking  other 
people's  money.  It's  the  way  of  the  world.  However,  as  I 
told  you,  /  gave  it  up  long  ago.  There  ivas  a  time  in  my  life 
when  I  used  to  live  by  it." 

"  How  did  you  manage  that  ?  " 

"  There  are  certain  rules  to  be  observed,  that's  all.  Only 
you  must  stick  to  them.  For  one  thing,  you  must  make  up 
your  mind  never  to  lose  more  than  a  certain  fixed  sum  any 
night  you  play.  If  you  stick  to  that,  you  will  find  your  win- 
nings always  in  excess  of  your  losses." 

"  How  can  that  be  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  pretend  to  account  for  it.  Gaming  has  its 
laws  as  well  as  the  universe  generally.  Everything  goes  by 
laws,  you  know — laws  that  cannot  be  found  out  except  by  ex- 
periment ;  and  that,  as  I  say,  is  one  of  the  laws  of  gambling." 

All  this  time  Mr.  Stopper  had  been  reading  Mr.  Molken's 
face.  Suddenly  Tom  caught  sight  of  his  superior  ;  the  warn- 
ing of  Wither  rushed  back  on  his  mind,  and  he  grew  pale  as 
death.  Molken  perceiving  the  change,  sought  for  its  cause, 
but  saw  nothing  save  a  stony  gentleman  in  the  opposite  box 
sipping  sherry,  and  picking  the  ripest  pieces  out  of  a  Stilton. 

"  Don't  look  that  way,  Molken,"  said  Tom,  in  an  under- 
tone.    "That's  our  Mr.  Stopper." 

"Well,  haven't  we  as  good  a  right  to  be  here  as  Mr.  Stop- 
per ?  "  returned  Molken,  in  a  voice  equally  inaudible  beyond 
the  table,  but  taking  piercing  eyeshots  at  the  cause  of  Tom's 
discomposure. 

The  two  men  very  soon  had  something  like  each  other's 
measure.  They  could  each  understand  his  neighbor's  ras- 
cality, while  his  own  seemed  to  each  only  a  law  of  nature. 

"You  generally  pay,  don't  you  ?  "  added  Molken. 

Tom  laughed. 

"Yes,  I  do  generally,  and  a  penny  to  the  cook  besides, 
9 


130  Guild  Court. 

which,  I  will  be  bound,  he  does  not.  But  that's  nothing  to 
the  point.  He  hates  me,  though  why,  I'm  sure  I  don't — I 
can  only  guess." 

"Some  girl,  I  suppose,"  said  Molken,  coolly. 

Thomas  felt  too  much  nattered  to  endeavor  even .  to  dilute 
the  insinuation  ;  and  Molken  went  on  : 

"  Well,  but  how  can  the  fellow  bear  malice  ?  Of  course,  he 
must  have  seen  from  the  first  that  he  had  no  chance  with  you. 
I'll  tell  you  what,  Worboise  ;  I  have  had  a  good  deal  of  expe- 
rience, and  it  is  my  conviction,  from  what  I  have  seen  of  you, 
that  you  are  one  of  the  lucky  ones — one  of  the  elect,  you 
know— born  to  it,  and  can't  help  yourself." 

Tom  pulled  out  his  watch. 

"  Half  an  hour  to  spare  yet,"  he  said.  "  Come  up  to  the 
smoking-room." 

Having  ordered  a  bottle  of  Ehine  wine,  Tom  turned  to 
Molken,  and  said  : 

"What  did  you  mean  by  saying  that  I  was  one  of  the  lucky 
ones  ? " 

"  Oh,  don't  you  know  there  are  some  men  born  under  a 
lucky  star — as  they  would  have  said  in  old  times  ?  What  the 
cause  is,  of  course  I  don't  know,  except  it  be  that  Heaven 
must  have  some  favorites,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  variety.  At 
all  events,  there  is  no  denying  that  some  men  are  born  to  luck. 
They  are  lucky  in  everything  they  put  their  hands  to.  Did 
you  ever  try  your  luck  in  a  lottery,  now  ?  " 

"  I  did  in  a  raffle,  once." 

"Well?" 

"  I  won  a  picture." 

"I  told  you  so  !  And  it  would  be  just  the  same  whatever 
you  tried.  You  are  cut  out  for  it.  You  have  the  luck-mark 
on  you.     I  was  sure  of  it." 

"  How  can  you  tell  that  ?  "  asked  Tom,  lingering  like  a  fly 
over  the  sweet  poison,  and  ready  to  swallow  almost  any  ab- 
surdity that  represented  him  as  something  different  from  the 
run  of  ordinary  mortals,  of  whom  he  was,  as  yet  at  least,  a 
very  ordinary  specimen. 

"  Never  you  mind  how  I  can  tell.  But  I  will  tell  you  this 
much,  that  I  have  experience  ;  and  your  own  Bacon  says  that 
the  laws  of  everything  are  to  be  found  out  by  observation  and 
experiment.  I  have  observed,  and  I  have  experimented,  and 
I  tell  you  you  are  a  lucky  one." 

Tom  stroked  the  faintest  neutrality  of  a  coming  mustache, 
ponderingly  and  pleasedly,  and  said  nothing. 


The  Tempter.  131 

"  By  the  by,  are  you  coming  to  me  to-night  ? "  asked 
Molken. 

"  No — o,"  answered  Tom,  still  stroking  his  upper  lip  with 
the  thumb  and  forefinger  of  his  left  hand,  "I  think  not.  I 
believe  I  have  an  engagement  to-night,  somewhere  or  other." 

He  took  out  his  pocket-book,  and  pretended  to  look. 

"Yes.     I  can't  have  my  lesson  to-night." 

"  Then  I  needn't  stop  at  home  for  you.  By  the  way,  have 
you  a  sovereign  about  you  ?  I  wouldn't  trouble  you,  you 
know,  only,  as  I  told  you,  I  haven't  got  one.  I  believe  your 
quarter  is  out  to-night." 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  I  ought  to  have  thought  of  that. 
I  have  two  half-sovereigns  in  my  pocket,  and  no  more,  I  am 
sorry  to  say.  Will  one  of  them  do  for  to-night  ?  You  shall 
have  more  to-morrow. " 

"  Oh,  thank  you  ;  it's  of  no  consequence.  Well,  I  don't 
know — I  think  I  will  take  the  ten  shillings,  for  I  want  to  go 
out  this  evening.  Yes.  Thank  you.  Never  mind  to-morrow, 
except  it  be  convenient. " 

Tom  settled  the  bill,  and  put  the  change  of  the  other  half- 
sovereign  in  his  pocket.  Molken  left  him  at  the  door  of  the 
tavern,  and  he  went  back  to  the  counting-house. 

"Who  was  that  with  you  at  the  Golden  Fleece,  Tom  ?" 
asked  Mr.  Stopper,  as  he  entered ;  for  he  took  advantage  of 
his  position  to  be  as  rude  as  he  found  convenient. 

Taken  by  surprise,  Tom  answered  at  once  : 

"Mr.  Molken." 

"  And  who  is  he  ?  "  asked  Stopper,  again. 

"  My  German  master,"  answered  Tom. 

The  next  moment  he  could  have  knocked  his  head  against 
the  wall  with  indignation  at  himself.  For,  always  behindhand 
when  left  to  himself,  he  was  ready  enough  when  played  upon 
by  another  to  respond  and  repent. 

"  He's  got  a  hangdog  phiz  of  his  own,"  said  Mr.  Stopper,  as 
he  plunged  again  into  the  business  before  him,  writing  away  as 
deliberately  as  if  it  had  been  on  parchment  instead  of  fools- 
cap ;  for  Stopper  was  never  in  a  hurry,  and  never  behind. 

Tom's  face  flushed  red  with  wrath. 

"  I'll  thank  you  to  be  civil  in  your  remarks  on  my  friends, 
Mr.  Stopper." 

Mr.  Stopper  answered  with  a  small  puff  of  windy  breath 
from  distended  lips.  He  blew,  in  short.  Tom  felt  his  eyes 
waver.  He  grew  almost  blind  with  rage.  If  he  had  followed 
his  inclination,  he  would  have  brought  the  ruler  beside  him 


132  .  Guild  Court. 

down,  with  a  terrible  crack,  on  the  head  before  him.  "  Why 
didn't  he  ?"  does  my  reader  inquire?  Just  because  of  his  in- 
capacity for  action  of  any  sort.  He  did  not  refrain  in  the  pity 
that  disarms  some  men  in  the  midst  of  their  wrath,  nor  yet 
from  the  sense  that  vengeance  is  God's  business,  and  will  be 
carried  out  in  a  mode  rather  different  from  that  in  which  man 
would  prosecute  his. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

HOW  TOM  SPENT  THE  EVENING. 

When  Tom  left  the  office  he  walked  into  Mr.  Kitely's  shop, 
for  he  was  afraid  lest  Mr.  Stoj^per  should  see  him  turn  up  to 
Guild  Court.  He  had  almost  forgotten  Mr.  Kitely's  behavior 
about  the  book  he  would  not  keep  for  him,  and  his  resent- 
ment was  gone  quite.  There  was  nobody  in  the  shop  but 
Mattie. 

"  Well,  chick,"  said  Thomas,  kindly,  but  more  condescend- 
ingly than  suited  Miss  Matilda's  tastes. 

"Neither  chick  nor  child,"  she  answered  promptly  ;  though 
where  she  got  the  phrase  is  a  mystery,  as  indeed  is  the  case 
with  almost  all  the  sayings  of  such  children. 

"  What  are  you,  then  ?    A  fairy  ?" 

"  If  I  was,  I  know  what  I  would  do.  Oh,  wouldn't  I  just  ! 
I  should  think  I  would  ! " 

"  Well,  what  would  you  do,  little  Miss  What's-your-name  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  Miss  Kitely  ;  but  that's  neither  here  nor 
there.     Oh,  no  !  it's  not  me  !     Wouldn't  I  just  ! " 

"  Well,  Miss  Kitely,  I  want  to  know  what  you  would  do  if 
you  were  a  fairy  ?  " 

"I  would  turn  your  eyes  into  gooseberries,  and  your  tongue 
into  a  bit  of  leather  a  foot  long  ;  and  every  time  you  tried  to 
speak  your  long  tongue  would  slap  your  blind  eyes  and  make 
you  cry." 

"  What  a  terrible  doom!"  returned  Thomas,  offended  at 
the  child's  dislike  to  him,  but  willing  to  carry  it  off. 
"Why?" 

"  Because  you've  made  Miss  Burton's  eyes  red,  you  naughty 
man !  /  know  you.  It  must  be  you.  Nobody  else  could 
make  her  eyes  red  but  you,  and  you  go  and  do  it." 


How  Tom  Spent  the  Evening.  133 

'  Thomas's  first  movement  was  of  anger ;  for  he  felt,  as  all 
who  have  concealments  are  ready  to  feel,  that  he  was  being  un- 
comfortably exposed.  He  turned  his  back  on  the  child,  and 
proceeded  to  examine  the  books  on  a  level  with  his  face.  While 
he  was  thus  engaged,  Mr.  Kitely  entered. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Worboise  ?  "  he  said.  "I've  got  an- 
other copy  of  that  book  you  and  I  fell  out  about  some  time  ago. 
I  can  let  you  have  this  one  at  half  the  price." 

It  was  evident  that  the  bookseller  wanted  to  be  conciliatory. 
Thomas,  in  his  present  mood  was  inclined  to  repel  his  ad- 
vances, but  he  shrank  from  contention,  and  said  : 

"  Thank  you.  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  it.  How  much  is 
it?" 

Mr.  Kitely  named  the  amount,  and,  ashamed  to  appear 
again  unable,  even  at  the  reduced  price,  to  pay  for  it,  Thomas 
pulled  out  the  last  farthing  of  the  money  in  his  pocket,  which 
came  to  the  exact  sum  required,  and  pocketed  the  volume. 

"If  you  would  excuse  a  man  who  has  seen  something  of  the 
world — more  than  was  good  for  him  at  one  time  of  his  life — 
Mr.  Worboise,"  said  Mr.  Kitely,  as  he  pocketed  the  money, 
"  I  would  give  you  a  hint  about  that  German  up  the  court. 
He's  a  clever  fellow  enough,  I  dare  say — perhaps  too  clever. 
Don't  you  have  anything  to  do  with  him  beyond  the  German. 
Take  my  advice.  I  don't  sit  here  all  day  at  the  mouth  of  the 
court  for  nothing.  I  can  see  what  comes  in  my  way  as  well  as 
another  man." 

"  What  is  there  to  say  against  him,  Mr.  Kitely  ?  I  haven't 
seen  any  harm  in  him." 

"  I'm  not  going  to  commit  myself  in  warning  you,  Mr. 
Worboise.  But  I  do  warn  you.  Look  out,  and  don't  let  him 
lead  you  into  mischief." 

"I  hope  I  am  able  to  take  care  of  myself,  Mr.  Kitely,"  said 
Thomas,  with  a  touch  of  offense. 

"  I  hope  you  are,  Mr.  Worboise,"  returned  the  bookseller, 
dryly;  "but  there's  no  offense  meant  in  giving  you  the 
hint." 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Stopper  passed  the  window.  Thomas 
listened  for  the  echo  of  his  steps  up  the  archway,  and  as  none 
came,  he  knew  that  he  had  gone  along  the  street.  He  waited, 
therefore,  till  he  thought  he  must  be  out  of  sight,  and  then 
sped  uneasily  from  the  shop,  round  the  corner,  and  up  to  Mrs. 
Boxall's  door,  which  the  old  lady  herself  opened  for  him,  not 
looking  so  pleased  as  usual  to  see  him.  Mr.  Molken  was  watch- 
ing from  the  opposite  ground-floor  window.     A  few  minutes 


134  Guild  Court. 

after,  Mr.  Stopper  repassed  the  window  of  Mr.  Kitely's  shop, 
and  went  into  the  counting-house  with  a  pass-key. 

Thomas  left  Mrs.  Boxall  to  shut  the  door,  and  rushed 
eagerly  up  the  stairs,  and  into  the  sitting-room.  There  he 
found  the  red  eyes  of  which  Mattie  had  spoken.  Lucy  rose 
and  held  out  her  hand,  but  her  manner  was  constrained,  and 
her  lips  trembled  as  if  she  were  going  to  cry.  Thomas  would 
have  put  his  arm  round  her  and  drawn  her  to  him,  but  she 
gently  pushed  his  arm  away,  and  he  felt  as  many  a  man  has 
felt,  and  every  man,  perhaps,  ought  to  feel,  that  in  the  gent- 
lest repulse  of  the  woman  he  loves  there  is  something  terribly 
imperative  and  absolute. 

"  Why,  Lucy  !"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  hurt ;  "what  have  I 
done  ?" 

"If  you  can  forget  so  soon,  Thomas,"  answered  Lucy,  "I 
cannot.  Since  yesterday  I  see  things  in  a  different  light  alto- 
gether. I  cannot,  for  your  sake  any  more  than  my  own,  allow 
things  to  go  on  in  this  doubtful  way." 

"Oh !  but,  Lucy,  I  was  taken  unawares  yesterday;  and  to- 
day, now  I  have  slept  upon  it,  I  don't  see  there  is  any  such 
danger.  I  ought  to  be  a  match  for  that  brute  Stopper,  any- 
how." 

Yet  the  brute  Stopper  had  outreached  him,  or,  at  least, 
"served  him  out,"  three  or  four  times  that  very  day,  and  he 
had  refused  to  acknowledge  it  to  himself,  which  was  all  his 
defense,  poor  wretch. 

"  But  that  is  not  all  the  question,  Thomas.  It  is  not  right. 
At  least,  it  seems  to  me  that  it  is  not  right  to  go  on  like  this. 
People's  friends  ought  to  know.  I  would  not  have  done  it  if 
grannie  hadn't  been  to  know.  But  then  I  ought  to  have 
thought  of  your  friends  as  well  as  my  own." 

"But  there  would  be  no  difficulty  if  I  had  only  a  grand- 
mother," urged  Thomas,  "and  one  as  good  as  yours.  I 
shouldn't  have  thought  of  not  telling." 

"I  don't  think  the  difficulty  of  doing  right  makes  it  unnec- 
essary to  do  it,"  said  Lucy. 

"I  think  you  might  trust  that  to  me,  Lucy,"  said  Thomas, 
falling  back  upon  his  old  attempted  relation  of  religious  in- 
structor to  his  friend. 

Lucy  was  silent  for  a  moment ;  but  after  what  she  had  gone 
through  in  the  night,  she  knew  that  the  time  had  come  for 
altering  their  relative  position  if  not  the  relation  itself. 

"No,  Thomas,"  said  she;  "I  must  take  my  own  duty  into 
my  own  hands.     I  will  not  go  on  this  way."  , 


How  Tom  Spent  the  Evening.  135 

"Do  you  think  then,  Lucy,  that  in  affairs  of  this  kind  a 
fellow  ought  to  do  just  what  his  parents  want  ?  " 

"No,  Thomas.  But  I  do  think  he  ought  not  to  keep  such 
things  secret  from  them." 

"Not  even  if  they  are  unreasonable  and  tyrannical  ?  " 

"No.  A  man  who  will  not  take  the  consequences  of  loving 
cannot  be  much  of  a  lover." 

"Lucy  !"  cried  Thomas,  now  stung  to  the  heart. 

"  I  can't  help  it,  Thomas,"  said  Lucy,  bursting  into  tears  ; 
"  I  must  speak  the  truth,  and  if  you  cannot  bear  it,  the  worse 
for  me — and  for  you,  too,  Thomas." 

"Then  you  mean  to  give  me  up?"  said  Thomas,  patheti- 
cally, without,  however,  any  real  fear  of  such  an  unthinkable 
catastrophe. 

"If  it  be  giving  you  up  to  say  I  will  not  marry  a  man  who 
is  too  much  afraid  of  his  father  and  mother  to  let  them  know 
what  he  is  about,  then  I  do  give  you  up.  But  it  will  be  you 
who  give  me  up  if  you  refuse  to  acknowledge  me  as  you 
ought." 

Lucy  could  not  have  talked  like  this  ever  before  in  her  life. 
She  had  gone  through  an  eternity  of  suffering  in  the  night. 
She  was  a  woman  now.  She  had  been  but  a  girl  before.  Now 
she  stood  high  above  Thomas.  He  was  but  a  boy  still,  and 
not  beautiful  as  such.  She  was  all  at  once  old  enough  to  be 
his  mother.  There  was  no  escape  from  the  course  she  took  ; 
no  dodging  was  possible.  This  must  be.  But  she  was  and 
would  be  gentle  with  poor  Thomas. 

"You  do  not  love  me,  Lucy,"  he  cried. 

"My  poor  Thomas,  I  do  love  you ;  love  you  so  dearly  that  I 
trust  and  pray  you  may  be  worthy  of  my  love.  Go  and  do  as 
you  ought,  and  come  back  to  me — like  one  of  the  old  knights 
you  talk  about,"  she  added,  with  the  glimmer  of  a  hopeful 
smile,  "  bringing  victory  to  his  lady." 

"I  will,  I  will,"  said  Thomas,  overcome  by  her  solemn 
beauty  and  dignified  words.  It  was  as  if  she  had  cast  the 
husk  of  the  girl,  and  had  come  out  a  saving  angel.  But  the 
perception  of  this  was  little  more  to  him  yet  than  a  poetic 
sense  of  painful  pleasure. 

"I  will,  I  will,"  he  said.  "But  I  cannot  to-night,  for  my 
father  and  mother  are  both  at  Folkestone.  But  I  will  write  to 
them — that  will  be  best." 

"  Any  way  you  like,  Thomas.  I  don't  care  how  you  do  it, 
so  it  is  done." 

All  this  time  the  old  lady,  having  seen  that  something  was 


136  Guild  Court. 

wrong,  had  discreetly  kept  out  of  the  way,  for  she  knew  that 
the  quarrels  of  lovers  at  least  are  most  easily  settled  between 
themselves.  Thomas  now  considered  it  all  over  and  done 
with,  and  Lucy,  overjoyed  at  her  victory,  leaned  into  his 
arms,  and  let  him  kiss  her  ten  times.  Such  a  man,  she  ought 
not,  perhaps — only  she  did  not  know  better — to  have  allowed 
to  touch  her  till  he  had  done  what  he  had  promised.  To 
some  people  the  promise  is  the  difficult  part,  to  others  the 
performance.  To  Thomas,  unhappily,  the  promising  was 
easy.  - 

They  did  not  hear  the  door  open.  It  was  now  getting  dark, 
but  the  two  were  full  in  the  light  of  the  window,  and  visible 
enough  to  the  person  who  entered.  He  stood  still  for  one 
moment,  during  which  the  lovers  unwound  their  arms.  Only 
when  parting,  they  became  aware  that  a  man  was  in  the  room. 
He  came  forward  with  hasty  step.  It  was  Eichard  Boxall. 
Thomas  looked  about  for  his  hat.  Lucy  stood  firm  and  quiet, 
waiting. 

"  Lucy,  where  is  your  grandmother  ?  " 

"  Up  stairs,  uncle,  I  believe." 

"  Is  she  aware  of  that  fellow's  presence  ?  " 

c '  You  are  not  very  polite,  uncle,"  said  Lucy,  with  dignity. 
e '  This  is  my  friend,  Mr.  Worboise,  whom  I  believe  you  know. 
Of  course  I  do  not  receive  visitors  without  my  grandmother's 
knowledge." 

Mr.  Boxall  choked  an  oath  in  his  throat,  or  rather  the  oath 
nearly  choked  him.  He  turned  and  went  down  the  stair 
again ;  but  neither  of  them  heard  the  outer  door  close. 
Thomas  and  Lucy  stared  at  each  other  in  dismay. 

The  facts  of  the  case  were  these,  as  near  as  I  can  guess. 
The  Ningpo  had  dropped  down  to  Gravesend,  and  the  Boxalls 
had  joined  her  there.  But  some  delay  had  arisen,  and  she 
was  not  to  sail  till  the  next  morning.  Mr.  Boxall  had  re- 
solved to  make  use  of  the  time  thus  gained  or  lost,  and  had 
come  up  to  town.  I  cannot  help  believing  that  it  was  by  con- 
trivance of  Mr.  Stopper,  who  had  watched  Tom  and  seen  him 
go  up  the  court,  that  he  went  through  the  door  from  his  pri- 
vate room,  instead  of  going  round,  which  would  have  given 
warning  to  the  lovers.  Possibly  he  returned  intending  to  see 
his  mother ;  but  after  the  discovery  he  made,  avoided  her, 
partly  because  he  was  angry  and  would  not  quarrel  with  her 
the  last  thing  before  his  voyage.  Upon  maturer  consideration, 
he  must  have  seen  that  he  had  no  ground  for  quarreling  with 
her  at  all,  for  she  could  have  known  nothing  about  Tom  in 


How  Tom  Spent  the  Evening.  137 

relation  to  Mary,  except  Tom  had  told  her,  which  was  not  at 
all  likely.  But  before  he  had  had  time  to  see  this,  he  was  on 
his  way  to  Gravesend  again.  He  was  so  touchy  as  well  as  obsti- 
nate about  everything  wherein  his  family  was  concerned,  that 
the  sight  of  Tom  with  his  Mary's  cousin  was  enough  to  drive 
all  reflection  out  of  him  for  an  hour  at  least. 

Thomas  and  Lucy  stood  and  stared  at  each  other.  Thomas 
stared  from  consternation  ;  Lucy  only  stared  at  Tom. 

"  Well,  Thomas,"  she  said  at  last,  with  a  sweet,  watery  smile  ; 
for  she  had  her  lover,  and  she  had  lost  her  idol.  She  had  got 
behind  the  scenes,  and  could  worship  no  more  ;  but  Dagon 
was  a  tine  idea,  notwithstanding  his  fall,  and  if  she  could  not 
set  him  up  on  his  pedestal  again,  she  would  at  least  try  to  give 
him  an  arm-chair.  Fish-tailed  Dagon  is  an  unfortunate  choice 
for  the  simile,  I  know,  critical  reader  ;  but  let  it  pass,  and  the 
idea  that  it  illustrates  being  by  no  means  original,  let  the  figure 
at  least  have  some  claim  to  the  distinction. 

"  Now  he'll  go  and  tell  my  father,"  said  Tom  ;  "  and  I  wish 
you  knew  what  a  row  my  mother  and  he  will  make  between 
them." 

"  But  why,  Tom  ?  Have  they  any  prejudice  against  me  ? 
Do  they  know  there  is  such  a  person  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.    They  may  have  heard  of  you  at  your  uncle's." 

"Then  why  should  they  be  so  very  angry  ?" 

"My  father  because  you  have  no  money,  and  my  mother 
because  you  have  no  grace." 

"  No  grace,  Tom  ?    Am  I  so  very  clumsy  ?" 

Thomas  burst  out  laughing. 

"I  forgot,"  he  said.  "You  were  not  brought  up  to  my 
mother's  slang.  She  and  her  set  use  Bible  words  till  they 
make  you  hate  them." 

"  But  you  shouldn't  hate  them.  They  are  good  in  them- 
selves, though  they  be  wrong  used. " 

"  That's  all  very  well.  Only  if  you  had  been  tried  with 
them  as  I  have  been,  I  am  afraid  you  would  have  had  to  give 
in  to  hating  them,  as  well  as  me,  Lucy.  I  never  did  like  that 
kind  of  slang.  But  what  am  I  to  do  with  old  Boxall — I  beg 
your  pardon — with  your  uncle  Ei chard  ?  He'll  be  sure  to 
write  to  my  father  before  he  sails.    They're  friends,  you  know." 

"Well,  but  you  will  be  beforehand  with  him,  and  then  it 
won't  matter.  You  were  going  to  do  it  at  any  rate,  and  the 
thing  now  is  to  have  the  start  of  him,"  said  Lucy,  perhaps  not 
sorry  to  have  in  the  occurrence  an  additional  spur  to  prick  the 
sides  of  Thomas's  intent. 


138  Guild  Court. 

"  Yes,  yes ;  that's  all  very  well,"  returned  Thomas,  dubiously, 
as  if  there  was  a  whole  world  behind  it. 

"Now,  dear  Tom,  do  go  home  at  once,  and  write.  You 
will  sa^e  the  last  post  if  you  do,"  said  Lucy,  decidedly ;  for 
she  saw  more  and  more  the  necessity,  for  Thomas's  own  sake, 
of  urging  him  to  action. 

"  So,  instead  of  giving  me  a  happy  evening,  you  are  going 
to  send  me  home  to  an  empty  house  ! " 

"  You  see  the  thing  must  be  done,  or  my  uncle  will  be 
before  you,"  said  Lucy,  beginning  to  be  vexed  with  him  for 
his  utter  want  of  decision,  and  with  herself  for  pushing  him 
toward  such  an  act.  Indeed,  she  felt  all  at  once  that  perhaps 
she  had  been  unmaidenly.  But  there  was  no  choice  except 
to  do  it,  or  break  off  the  engagement. 

Now,  whether  it  was  that  her  irritation  influenced  her  tone 
and  infected  Tom  with  like  irritation,  or  that  he  could  not 
bear  being  thus  driven  to  do  what  he  so  much  disliked,  while 
on  the  whole  he  would  have  preferred  that  Mr.  Boxall  should 
tell  his  father  and  so  save  him  from  the  immediate  difficulty, 
the  evil  spirit  in  him  arose  once  more  in  rebellion,  and,  like 
the  mule  that  he  was,  he  made  an  effort  to  unseat  the  gentle 
power  that  would  have  urged  him  along  the  only  safe  path  on 
the  mountain-side. 

"Lucy,  I  will  not  be  badgered  in  this  way.  If  you  can't 
trust  me,  you  won't  get  anything  that  way." 

Lucy  drew  back  a  step  and  looked  at  him  for  one  moment ; 
then  turned  and  left  the  room.  Thomas  waited  for  a  min- 
ute ;  then,  choosing  to  arouse  a  great  sense  of  injury  in  his 
bosom,  took  his  hat,  and  went  out,  banging  the  door  behind 
him. 

Just  as  he  banged  Lucy's  door,  out  came  Mr.  Molken  from 
his.  It  was  as  if  the  devil  had  told  a  hawk  to  wait,  and  he 
would  fetch  him  a  pigeon. 

"Coming  to  have  your  lesson  after  all?"  he  asked,  as 
Thomas,  from  very  indecision,  made  a  step  or  two  toward  him. 

"  No  ;  I  don't  feel  inclined  for  a  lesson  to-night." 

"Where  are  you  going,  then  ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  answered  Tom,  trying  to  look  nohow 
in  particular. 

"  Come  along  with  me,  then.  I'll  show  you  something  of 
life  after  dark." 

"  But  where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  You'll  see  that  when  we  get  there.  You're  not  afraid,  are 
you  ?  " 


Sow  Tom  Spent  the  Evening.  139 

"  Not  I,"  answered  Tom ;  "  only  a  fellow  likes  to  know 
where  he's  going.     That's  all." 

"  Well,  where  would  you  like  to  go  ?  A  young  fellow  like 
you  really  ought  to  know  something  of  the  world  he  lives  in. 
Y ou  are  clever  enough,  in  all  conscience,  if  you  only  knew  a 
little  more." 

"  Go  on,  then.  I  don't  care.  It's  nothing  to  me  where  I 
go.  Only,"  Tom  added,  "I  have  no  money  in  my  pocket. 
I  spent  my  last  shilling  on  this  copy  of  Goethe's  poems." 

"Ah,  you  never  spent  your  money  better!  There  was  a 
man,  now,  that  never  contented  himself  with  hearsay  !  He 
would  know  all  the  ways  of  life  for  himself — else  how  was  he 
to  judge  of  them  all  ?  He  would  taste  of  everything,  that  he 
might  know  the  taste  of  it.  Why  should  a  man  be  ignorant 
of  anything  that  can  be  known.  Come  along.  I  will  take 
care  of  you.     See  if  I  don't ! " 

"  But  you  can't  be  going  anywhere  in  London  for  nothing. 
And  I  tell  you  I  haven't  got  a  farthing  in  my  purse." 

"  Never  mind  that.  It  shan't  cost  you  anything.  Now  I 
am  going  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  as  you  English  call  it ; 
though  why  there  should  be  anything  dirty  in  keeping  your 
own  secrets  I  don't  know.  I  want  to  make  an  experiment 
with  you." 

"  Give  me  chloroform,  and  cut  me  up  ?"  said  Tom,  reviving 
as  his  quarrel  with  Lucy  withdrew  a  little  into  the  back- 
ground. 

"  Not  quite  that.  You  shall  neither  take  chloroform,  nor 
have  your  eyes  bandaged,  nor  be  tied  to  the  table.  You  can 
go  the  moment  you  have  had  enough  of  it.  It  is  merely  for  the 
sake  of  my  theory.     Entirely  an  experiment." 

"  Perhaps,  if  you  told  me  your  theory,  I  might  judge  of  the 
nature  of  the  experiment." 

"  I  told  you  all  about  it  the  other  day.  You  are  one  of  those 
fortunate  mortals  doomed  to  be  lucky.  Why,  I  knew  one — 
not  a  gambler,  I  don't  mean  that — whose  friends  at  last  would 
have  nothing  to  do  with  him  where  any  chance  was  concerned. 
If  it  was  only  sixpenny  points,  they  wouldn't  play  a  single 
rubber  of  whist  with  him  except  he  was  their  partner.  In 
fact,  the  poor  wretch  was  reduced  to  play  only  with  strangers, 
— comparative  strangers  I  mean,  of  course.  He  won  every- 
thing." 

"  Then  what  do  you  want  with  me  ?     Out  with  it." 

"1  only  want  to  back  you.  You  don't  understand  the 
thing.     You  shan't  spend  a  farthing.     I  have  plenty."    Here 


140  Guild  Court. 

Molken  pulled  a  few  sovereigns  from  his  pocket  as  he  -went  on, 
and  it  never  occurred  to  Tom  to  ask  how  he  had  them,  seeing 
he  was  so  hard-up  at  dinner-time.  "  It's  all  for  my  theory  of 
luck,  1  assure  you.  I  have  given  up  practical  gambling,  as  I 
told  you,  long  ago.  It's  not  right.  I  have  known  enough 
about  it,  I  confess  to  you — you  know  we  understand  each 
other ;  but  I  confess  too — my  theory — I  am  anxious  about 
that." 

All  this  time  they  had  been  walking  along,  Thomas  paying 
no  heed  to  the  way  they  went.  He  would  have  known  little 
about  it,  however,  well  as  he  thought  he  knew  London,  for 
they  had  entered  a  region  entirely  unknown  to  him. 

"  But  you  haven't  told  me,  after  all,"  he  said,  "where  you 
are  going." 

"  Here,"  answered  Molken,  pushing  open  the  swing-door  of 
a  public-house. 


The  next  morning  Thomas  made  his  appearance  in  the 
office  at  the  usual  hour,  but  his  face  was  pale  and  his  eyes 
were  red.  His  shirt-front  was  tumbled  and  dirty,  and  he  had 
nearly  forty  shillings  in  his  pocket.  He  never  looked  up  from 
his  work,  and  now  and  then  pressed  his  hand  to  his  head. 
This  Mr.  Stopper  saw  and  enjoyed. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

HOW  LUCY  SPEI^T  THE  KIGHT. 

Whef  Lucy  left  the  room,  with  her  lover — if  lover  he 
could  be  called — alone  in  it,  her  throat  felt  as  if  it  would  burst 
with  the  swelling  of  something  like  bodily  grief.  She  did  not 
know  what  it  was,  for  she  had  never  felt  anything  like  it  be- 
fore. She  thought  she  was  going  to  die.  Her  grandmother 
could  have  told  her  that  she  would  be  a  happy  woman  if  she 
did  not  have  such  a  swelling  in  her  throat  a  good  many  times 
without  dying  of  it ;  but  Lucy  strove  desperately  to  hide  it 
from  her.  She  went  to  her  own  room  and  threw  herself  on 
her  bed,  but  started  up  again  when  she  heard  the  door  bang, 


How  Lucy  Spent  the  Night.  141 

"flew  to  the  window,  and  saw  all  that  passed  between  Molken 
and  Thomas  till  they  left  the  court  together.  She  had  never 
seen  Molken  so  full  in  the  face  before;  and  whether  it  was 
from  this  full  view,  or  that  his  face  wore  more  of  the  spider 
expression  upon  this  occasion,  I  do  not  know — I  incline  to  the 
latter,  for  I  think  that  an  on-looker  can  read  the  expression  of 
two  countenances  better,  sometimes,  than  those  engaged  in 
conversation  can  read  each  other's — however  it  was,  she  felt  a 
dreadful  repugnance  to  Molken  from  that  moment,  and  be- 
came certain  that  he  was  trying  in  some  way  or  other  to  make 
his  own  out  of  Thomas.  With  this  new  distress  was  mingled 
the  kind  but  mistaken  self-reproach  that  she  had  driven  him 
to  it.  Why  should  she  not  have  borne  with  the  poor  boy,  who 
was  worried  to  death  between  his  father  and  mother  and  Mr. 
Stopper  and  that  demon  down  there  ?  He  would  be  all  right 
if  they  would  only  leave  him  alone.  He  was  but  a  poor  boy, 
and,  alas  !  she  had  driven  him  away  from  his  only  friend — for 
such  she  was  sure  she  was.  She  threw  herself  on  her  bed,  but 
she  could  not  rest.  All  the  things  in  the  room  seemed  press- 
ing upon  her,  as  if  they  had  staring  eyes  in  their  heads ;  and 
there  was  no  heart  anywhere. 

Her  grandmother  heard  the  door  bang,  and  came  in  search 
of  her. 

"  What's  the  matter,  my  pet  ?"  she  asked,  as  she  entered 
the  room  and  found  her  lying  on  the  bed. 

"  Oh,  nothing,  grannie,"  answered  Lucy,  hardly  knowing 
what  she  said. 

Si  You've  quarrelled  with  that  shilly-shally  beau  of  yours,  I 
suppose.     Well,  let  him  go — he's  not  much." 

Lucy  made  no  reply,  but  turned  her  face  toward  the  wall,  as 
mourners  did  ages  before  the  birth  of  King  Hezekiah.  Gran- 
nie had  learned  a  little  wisdom  in  her  long  life,  and  left 
her.  She  would  get  a  cup  of  tea  ready,  for  she  had  great 
faith  in  bodily  cures  for  mental  aches.  But  before  the  tea 
was  well  in  the  tea-pot  Lucy  came  down  in  her  bonnet  and 
shawl. 

She  could  not  rest.  She  tossed  and  turned.  What  could 
Thomas  be  about  with  that  man  ?  What  mischief  might  he 
not  take  him  into  ?  Good  women,  in  their  supposed  ignorance 
of  men's  wickedness,  are  not  unfrequently  like  the  angels,  in 
that  they  understand  it  perfectly,  without  the  knowledge  soil- 
ing one  feather  of  their  wings.  They  see  it  clearly — even  from 
afar.  Now,  although  Lucy  could  not  know  so  much  of  it  as 
many  are  compelled  to  know,  she  had  some  acquaintance  with 


142  Guild  Court. 

the  lowest  castes  of  humanity,  and  the  vice  of  the  highest  is 
much  the  same  as  the  vice  of  the  lowest,  only  in  general  worse 
— more  refined,  and  more  detestable.  So,  by  a  natural  process, 
without  knowing  how,  she  understood  something  of  the  kind 
of  gulf  into  which  a  man  like  Molken  might  lead  Thomas,  and 
she  could  not  bear  the  thoughts  that  sprung  out  of  this  under- 
standing. Hardly  knowing  what  she  did,  she  got  up  and  put 
on  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  went  down  stairs. 

"  Where  on  earth  are  you  going,  Lucy  ?"  asked  her  grand- 
mother, in  some  alarm. 

Lucy  did  not  know  in  the  least  what  she  meant  to  do.  She 
had  had  a  vague  notion  of  setting  out  to  find  Thomas  some- 
where, and  rescue  him  from  the  grasp  of  Moloch,  but,  save  for 
the  restlessness  with  which  her  misery  filled  her,  she  could 
never  have  entertained  the  fancy.  The  moment  her  grand- 
mother asked  her  the  question,  she  saw  how  absurd  it  would 
be.  Still  she  could  not  rest.  So  she  invented  an  answer,  and 
ordered  her  way  according  to  her  word. 

" I'm  going  to  see  little  Mattie,"  she  said.  "The  child  is 
lonely,  and  so  am  I.    I  will  take  her  out  for  a  walk." 

"Do  then,  my  dear.  It  will  do  you  both  good,"  said  the 
grandmother.     "  Only  you  must  have  a  cup  of  tea  first." 

Lucy  drank  her  cup  of  tea,  then  rose,  and  went  to  the  book- 
shop.    Mr.  Kitely  was  there  alone. 

"How's  Mattie  to-night,  Mr.  Kitely  ?  Is  she  any  better,  do 
you  think  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  She's  in  the  back  room  there.  I'll  call  her,"  said  the  book- 
seller, without  answering  either  of  Lucy's  questions. 

"  Oh  !  I'll  just  go  in  to  her.  You  wouldn't  mind  me  taking 
her  out  for  a  little  walk,  would  you  ?" 

"  Much  obliged  to  you,  miss,"  returned  the  bookseller, 
heartily.  "It's  not  much  amusement  the  poor  child  has. 
I'm  always  meaning  to  do  better  for  her,  but  I'm  so  tied 
with  the  shop  that—/  don't  know  hardly  how  it  is,  but  some- 
how we  go  on  the  same  old  way.     She'll  be  delighted." 

Lucy  went  into  the  back  parlor,  and  there  sat  Mattie, 
with  her  legs  curled  up  beneath  her  on  the  window-sill,  read- 
ing a  little  book,  thumbed  and  worn  at  the  edges,  and  brown 
with  dust  and  use. 

"Well,  Miss  Burton,"  she  cried,  before  Lucy  had  time  to 
speak,  "  I've  found  something  here.  I  think  it's  what  people 
call  poetry.  I'm  not  sure  ;  but  I'm  sure  it's  good,  whatever 
it  is.  Only  I  can't  read  it  very  well.  Will  you  read  it  to  me, 
please,  miss  ?    I  do  like  to  be  read  to." 


How  Lucy  Spent  the  Night.  143 

"I  want  you  to  come  out  for  a  walk  with  me,  Mattie,"  said 
Lucy,  who  was  in  no  humor  for  reading. 

Wise  Mattie  glanced  up  in  her  face.  She  had  recognized 
the  sadness  in  her  tone. 

"  Read  this  first,  please,  Miss  Burton,"  she  said.  "  I  think 
it  will  do  you  good.  Things  will  go  wrong.  I'm  sure  it's 
very  sad.  And  I  don't  know  what's  to  be  done  with  the  world. 
It's  always  going  wrong.  It's  just  like  father's  watch.  He's 
always  saying  there's  something  out  of  order  in  its  inside,  and 
he's  always  a-taking  of  it  to  the  doctor,  as  he  calls  the  watch- 
maker to  amuse  me.  Only  I'm  not  very  easy  to  amuse,"  re- 
flected Mattie,  with  a  sigh.  "  But,"  she  resumed,  "  I  wish 
I  knew  the  doctor  to  set  the  world  right.  The  clock  o'  St. 
Jacob's  goes  all  right,  but  I'm  sure  Mr.  Potter  ain't  the  doc- 
tor to  set  the  world  right,  any  more  than  Mr.  Derry  is  for  Mr. 
Kitely's  watch." 

The  associations  in  Mattie's  mind  were  not  always  very  clear 
•either  to  herself  or  other  people ;  they  were  generally  just, 
notwithstanding. 

"  But  you  have  never  been  to  Mr.  Potter's  church  to  know, 
Mattie." 

"  Oh  !  haven't  I,  just  ?  Times  and  times.  Mr.  Spelt  has 
been  a-taking  of  me.  I  do  believe  mother  thinks  I  am  going 
to  die,  and  wants  to  get  me  ready.  I  wonder  what  it  all 
means  ?  " 

"  Nonsense,  Mattie  ! "  said  Lucy,  already  turned  a  little 
aside  from  her  own  sorrow  by  the  words  of  the  child.  ' '  You 
must  put  on  your  hat  and  come  out  with  me." 

"  My  bonnet,  miss.  Hats  are  only  fit  for  very  little  girls. 
And  I  won't  go  till  you  read  this  poetry  to  me — if  it  be 
poetry. " 

Lucy  took  the  book,  and  read.     The  verses  were  as  follows  : 

As  Christ  went  into  Jericho  town, 
'Twas  darkness  all,  from  toe  to  crown, 

About  blind  Bartimeus. 
He  said,  Our  eyes  are  more  than  dim, 
And  so,  of  course,  we  don't  see  Him, 

But  David's  Son  can  see  us. 

Cry  out,  cry  out,  blind  brother,  cry  ; 
Let  not  salvation  dear  go  by  ; 

Have  mercy,  Son  of  David. 
Though  they  were  blind,  they  both  could  hear— 
They  heard,  and  cried,  and  he  drew  near  ; 

And  so  the  blind  were  saved. 


144:  -  Guild  Court. 

0  Jesus  Christ, !  I'm  deaf  and  blind, 
Nothing  comes  through  into  my  mind, 

I  only  am  not  dumb. 
Although  I  see  thee  not,  nor  hear, 

1  cry  because  thou  may'st  be  near  ; 
0  Son  of  David,  come.  * 

A  finger  comes  into  my  ear  ; 

A  voice  comes  through  the  deafness  drear  ; 

Poor  eyes,  no  more  be  dim. 
A  hand  is  laid  upon  mine  eyes  ; 
I  hear,  I  feel,  I  see,  I  rise — 

'TisHe,  I  follow  Him. 

Before  Lucy  had  finished  reading  the  not  very  poetic  lines, 
they  had  somehow  or  other  reached  her  heart.  For  they  had 
one  quality  belonging  to  most  good  poetry — that  of  directness 
or  simplicity  ;  and  never  does  a  mind  like  hers — like  hers,  I 
mean,  in  truthfulness — turn  more  readily  toward  the.  unseen, 
the  region  out  of  which  even  that  which  is  seen  comes,  than . 
when  a  rain-cloud  enwraps  and  hides  the  world  around  it, 
leaving  thus,  as  it  were,  only  the  passage  upward  open.  She 
closed  the  little  book  gently,  laid  it  down,  got  Mattie's  bonnet, 
and,  heedless  of  the  remarks  of  the  child  upon  the  poem,  put 
it  on  her,  and  led  her  out.  Her  heart  was  too  full  to  speak. 
As  they  went  through  the  shop — 

"A  pleasant  walk  to  you,  ladies,"  said  the  bookseller. 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Kitely,"  returned  his  daughter,  for  Lucy 
could  not  yet  speak. 

They  had  left  Bagot  Street,  and  were  in  one  of  the  principal 
thoroughfares,  before  Lucy  had  got  the  lump  in  her  throat 
sufficiently  sAvallowed  to  be  able  to  speak.  She  had  not  yet 
begun  to  consider  where  they  should  go.  When  they  came  out 
into  the  wider  street,  the  sun,  now  near  the  going  down,  was 
shining  golden  through  a  rosy  fog.  Long  shadows  lay  or  flit- 
ted about  over  the  level  street.  Lucy  had  never  before  taken 
any  notice  of  the  long  shadows  of  evening.  Although  she  was 
a  town  girl,  and  had  therefore  had  comparatively  few  chances, 
yet  in  such  wide  streets  as  she  had  sometimes  to  traverse  they 
were  not  a  rare  sight.  In  the  city,  to  be  sure,  they  are  much 
rarer.  But  the  reason  she  saw  them  now  was  that  her  sorrow- 
ful heart  saw  the  sorrowfulness  of  the  long  shadows  out  of  the 
rosy  mist,  and  made  her  mind  observe  them.  The  sight 
brought  the  tears  again  into  her  eyes,  and  yet  soothed  her. 
They  looked  so  strange  upon  that  wood-paved  street,  that 
they  seemed  to  have  wandered  from  some  heathy  moor  and 


How  Lucy  Spent  the  Night.  145 

lost  themselTes  in  the  labyrinth  of  the  city.  Even  more  than 
the  scent  of  the  hay  in  the  early  morning,  floating  into  the  si- 
lent streets  from  the  fields  round  London,  are  these  long  shad- 
ows to  the  lover  of  nature,  convincing  him  that  what  seems 
the  unnatural  Babylon  of  artifice  and  untruth,  is  yet  at  least 
within  the  region  of  nature,  contained  in  her  bosom  and  sub- 
jected to  her  lovely  laws  ;  is  on  the  earth  as  truly  as  the  grassy 
field  upon  which  the  child  sees  with  delighted  awe  his  very 
own  shadow  stretch  out  to  such  important,  yea,  portentous, 
length.  Even  hither  come  the  marvels  of  Nature's  magic. 
Not  all  the  commonplaces  of  ugly  dwellings,  and  cheating 
shops  that  look  churches  in  the  face  and  are  not  ashamed,  can 
shut  out  that  which  gives  mystery  to  the  glen  far  withdrawn, 
and  loveliness  to  the  mountain-side.  From  this  moment  Lucy 
began  to  see  and  feel  things  as  she  had  never  seen  or  felt  them 
before.  Her  weeping  had  made  way  for  a  deeper  spring  in 
her  nature  to  flow — a  gain  far  more  than  sufficient  to  repay 
the  loss  of  such  a  lover  as  Thomas,  if  indeed  she  must  lose' 
him. 

But  Mattie  saw  the  shadows  too. 

"  Well,  miss,  who'd  have  thought  of  such  a  place  as  this  ! 
I  declare  it  bewilders  my  poor  head.  I  feel  every  time  a  horse 
puts  his  foot  on  my  shadow  as  if  I  must  cry  out.  Isn't  it 
silly  ?     It's  all  my  big  head — it's  not  me,  you  know,  miss." 

Lucy  could  not  yet  make  the  remark,  and  therefore  I  make 
it  for  her — how  often  we  cry  out  when  something  steps  on  our 
shadow,  passing  yards  away  from  ourselves  !  There  is  not  a 
phenomenon  of  disease — not  even  of  insanity — that  has  not  its 
counterpart  in  our  moral  miseries,  all  springing  from  want  of 
faith  in  God.  At  least,  so  it  seems  to  me.  That  will  ac- 
count for  it  all,  or  looks  as  if  it  would ;  and  nothing  else 
does. 

It  seems  to  me,  too,  that  in  thinking  of  the  miseries  and 
wretchedness  in  the  world  we  seldom  think  of  the  other  side. 
We  hear  of  an  event  in  association  with  some  certain  individ- 
ual, and  we  say — "  How  dreadful !  How  miserable  !  "  And 
perhaps  we  say — "Is  there — can  there  be  a  God  in  the  earth 
when  such  a  thing  can  take  place  ?  "  But  we  do  not  see  into 
the  region  of  actual  suffering  or  conflict.  We  do  not  see  the 
heart  where  the  shock  falls.  We  neither  see  the  proud  bracing 
of  energies  to  meet  the  ruin  that  threatens,  nor  the  gracious 
faint  in  which  the  weak  escape  from  writhing.  We  do  not  see 
the  abatement  of  pain  which  is  Paradise  to  the  tortured  ;  we 
do  not  see  the  gentle  upholding  in  sorrow  that  comes  even 
10 


146  Guild  Court. 

from  the  ministrations  of  nature— not  to  speak  of  human 
nature — to  delicate  souls.  In  a  word,  we  do  not  see,  and  the 
sufferer  himself  does  not  understand,  how  God  is  present  every 
moment,  comforting,  upholding,  heeding  that  the  pain  shall 
not  be  more  than  can  be  borne,  making  the  thing  possible  and 
not  hideous.  I  say  nothing  of  the  peaceable  fruits  that  are  to 
spring  therefrom  ;  and  who  shall  dare  to  say  where  they  shall 
not  follow  upon  such  tearing  up  of  the  soil  ?  Even  those  long 
shadows  gave  Lucy  some  unknown  comfort,  flowing  from 
Nature's  recognition  of  the  loss  of  her  lover  ;  and  she  clasped 
the  little  hand  more  tenderly,  as  if  she  would  thus  return  her 
thanks  to  Nature  for  the  kindness  received. 

To  get  out  of  the  crowd  on  the  pavement  Lucy  turned  aside 
into  a  lane.  She  had  got  half  way  down  it  before  she  dis- 
covered that  it  was  one  of  those  through  which  she  had  passed 
the  night  before,  when  she  went  with  Thomas  to  the  river.  She 
turned  at  once  to  leave  it.  As  she  turned,  right  before  her 
'  stood  an  open  church  door.  It  was  one  of  those  sepulchral 
city  churches,  where  the  voice  of  the  clergyman  sounds  ghostly, 
and  it  seems  as  if  the  dead  below  were  more  real  in  their  pres- 
ence than  the  half  dozen  worshipers  scattered  among  the 
pews. 

On  this  occasion,  however,  there  were  seven  present  when 
Lucy  and  Mattie  entered  and  changed  the  mystical  number  to 
the  magical. 

It  was  a  church  named  outlandishly  after  a  Scandinavian 
saint.  Some  worthy  had  endowed  a  week-evening  sermon 
there  after  better  fashion  than  another  had  endowed  the  poor 
of  the  parish.  The  name  of  the  latter  was  recorded  in  golden 
i  letters  upon  a  black  tablet  in  the  vestibule,  as  the  donor  of 
£200,  with  the  addition  in  letters  equally  golden,  None  of 
which  was  ever  paid  by  his  trustees. 

I  will  tell  you  who  the  worshipers  were.  There  was  the 
housekeeper  in  a  neighboring  warehouse,  who  had  been  Li  a 
tumult  all  the  day,  and  at  night-fall  thought  of  the  kine- 
browsed  fields  of  her  childhood,  and  went  to  church.  There 
was  an  old  man  who  had  once  been  manager  of  a  bank,  and 
had  managed  it  ill  both  for  himself  and  his  company ;  and 
having  been  dismissed  in  consequence,  had  first  got  weak  in 
the  brain,  and  then  begun  to  lay  up  treasure  in  heaven. 
Then  came  a  brother  and  two  sisters,  none  of  them  under 
seventy.  The  former  kept  shifting  his  brown  wig  and  taking 
snuff  the  whole  of  the  service,  and  the  latter  two  wiping, 
with  yellow  silk  handkerchiefs,  brown  faces  inlaid  with  coal- 


How  Lucy  Spent  the  Night.  147 

dust.  They  could  not  agree  well  enough  to  live  together,  for 
their  father's  will  was  the  subject  of  constant  quarrel.  They 
therefore  lived  in  three  lodgings  at  considerable  distances  apart. 
But  every  night  in  the  week  they  met  at  this  or  that  church 
similarly  endowed,  sat  or  knelt  or  stood  in  holy  silence  or 
sacred  speech  for  an  hour  and  a  half,  walked  together  to  the 
end  of  the  lane  discussing  the  sermon,  and  then  separated  till 
the  following  evening.  Thus  the  better  parts  in  them  made  a 
refuge  of  the  house  of  God,  where  they  came  near  to  each 
other,  and  the  destroyer  kept  a  little  aloof  for  the  season. 
These,  with  the  beadle  and  his  wife,  and  Lucy  and  Mattie, 
made  up  the  congregation. 

Now,  when  they  left  the  lane  there  was  no  sun  to  be  seen ; 
but  when  they  entered  the  church,  there  he  was — his  last  rays 
pouring  in  through  a  richly  stained  window,  the  only  beauty 
of  the  building.  This  window — a  memorial  one — was  placed 
in  the  northern  side  of  the  chancel,  whence  a  passage  through 
houses,  chimneys,  and  churches  led  straight  to  the  sunset, 
down  which  the  last  rays  I  speak  of  came  speeding  for  one 
brief  moment  ere  all  was  gone,  and  the  memorial  as-  faded  and 
gray  as  the  memory  of  the  man  to  whom  it  was  dedicated. 

This  change  from  the  dark  lane  to  the  sun-lighted  church 
laid  hold  of  Lucy's  feelings.  She  did  not  know  what  it  made 
her  feel,  but  it  aroused  her  with  some  vague  sense  of  that 
sphere  of  glory  which  enwraps  all  our  lower  spheres,  and  she 
bowed  her  knees  and  her  head,  and  her  being  worshiped,  if  her 
thoughts  were  too  troubled  to  go  upward.  The  prayers  had 
commenced,  and  she  kneeled,  the  words  "  He  pardoneth  and 
absolveth,"  were  the  first  that  found  luminous  entrance  into 
her  soul ;  and  with  them  came  the  picture  of  Thomas  as  he 
left  the  court  with  the  man  of  the  bad  countenance.  Of  him, 
and  what  he  might  be  about,  her  mind  was  full ;  but  every 
now  and  then  a  flash  of  light,  in  the  shape  of  words,  broke 
through  the  mist  of  her  troubled  thoughts,  and  testified  of  the 
glory-sphere  beyond  ;  till  at  length  her  mind  was  so  far  calmed 
that  she  became  capable  of  listening  a  little  to  the  discourse  of 
the  preacher. 

He  was  not  a  man  of  the  type  of  Mr.  Potter  of  St.  Jacob's, 
who  considered  himself  possessed  of  worldly  privileges  in  vir- 
tue of  a  heavenly  office  not  one  of  whose  duties  he  fulfilled  in 
a  heavenly  fashion.  Some  people  considered  Mr.  Fuller  very 
silly  for  believing  that  he  might  do  good  in  a  church  like  this, 
with  a  congregation  like  this,  by  speaking  that  which  he  know, 
and  testifying  that  which  he  had  seen.     But  he  did  actually 


148  Guild  Court. 

believe  it.  Somehow  or  other — I  think  because  he  was  so 
much  in  the  habit  of  looking  up  to  the  Father — the  prayers 
took  a  hold  of  him  once  more  every  time  he  read  them  ;  and 
he  so  delighted  in  the  truths  he  saw  that  he  rejoiced  to  set 
them  forth — was  actually  glad  to  talk  about  them  to  any  one 
who  would  listen.  When  he  confessed  his  feeing  about  con- 
gregations, he  said  that  he  preferred  'twelve  people  to  a  thou- 
sand. This  he  considered  a  weakness,  however ;  except  that 
he  could  more  easily  let  his  heart  out  to  the  twelve. 

He  took  for  his  text  the  words  of  our  Lord,  "  Come  unto  me, 
all  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden."  He  could  not  see  the 
strangers,  for  they  sat  behind  a  pillar,  and  therefore  he  had  no 
means  for  discovering  that  each  of  them  had  a  heavy-laden 
heart  ;  Lucy  was  not  alone  in  trouble,  for  Syne  had  been  hard 
upon  Mattie  that  day.  He  addressed  himself  especially  to  the 
two  old  women  before  him,  of  whose  story  he  knew  nothing, 
though  their  faces  were  as  well  known  to  him  as  the  pillars  of 
the  church.  But  the  basin  into  which  the  fountain  of  his 
speech  flowed  was  the  heart  of  those  girls. 

No  doubt  presented  itself  as  to  the  truth  of  what  the 
preacher  was  saying ;  nor  could  ■  either  of  them  have  given  a 
single  argument  from  history  or  criticism  for  the  reality  of  the 
message  upon  which  the  preacher  founded  his  exhortation.  The 
truth  is  not  dependent  ujjon  proof  for  its  working.  Its  rela- 
tion to  the  human  being  is  essential,  is  in  the  nature  of  things  ; 
so  that  if  it  be  but  received  in  faith — that  is,  acted  upon — it 
works  its  own  work,  and  needs  the  buttressing  of  no  argu- 
ments any  more  than  the  true  operation  of  a  healing  plant  is 
dependent  upon  a  knowledge  of  Dioscorides.  My  reader  must 
not,  therefore,  suppose  that  I  consider  doubt  an  unholy  thing ; 
on  the  contrary,  I  consider  spiritual  doubt  a  far  more  precious 
thing  than  intellectual  conviction,  for  it  springs  from  the 
awaking  of  a  deeper  necessity  than  any  that  can  be  satisfied 
from  the  region  of  logic.  But  when  the  truth  has  begun  to 
work  its  own  influence  in  any  heart,  that  heart  has  begun  to 
rise  out  of  the  region  of  doubt. 

When  they  came  from  the  church,  Lucy  and  Mattie  walked 
hand  in  hand  after  the  sisters  and  brother,  and  heard  them 
talk. 

"He's  a  young  one,  that!  "said  the  old  man.  "He'll 
know  a  little  better  by  the  time  he's  as  old  as'  I  am." 

"  Well,  I  did  think  he  went  a  little  too  far  when  he  said  a 
body  might  be  as  happy  in  the  work'us  as  with  thousands  of 
pounds  in  the  Bank  of  England." 


How  Lucy  Spent  the  Night.  149 

" I  don't  know,"  interposed  the  other  sister.  "He  said  it 
depended  on  what  you'd  got  inside  you.  Now,  if  you've  got  a 
bad  temper  inside  you,  all  you've  got  won't  make  you  happy." 

"Thank  you,  sister.  You're  very  polite,  as  usual.  But, 
after  all,  where  should  we  have  been  but  for  the  trifle  we've 
got  in  the  bank  ?  " 

"  You  two  might  ha'  been  living  together  like  sisters,  in- 
stead of  quarreling  like  two  cats,  if  the  money  had  gone  as  it 
ought  to,"  said  the  old  man,  who  considered  that  the  whole 
property  belonged  of  right  to  him. 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  end  of  the  lane,  and, 
without  a  Word  to  each  other,  they  separated. 

"  Syne,"  said  Mattie,  significantly.  Syne  was  evidently  her 
evil  incarnation.  Lucy  did  not  reply,  but  hastened  home  with 
her,  anxious  to  be  alone.  She  did  not  leave  the  child,  how- 
ever, before  she  had  put  her  to  bed,  and  read  again  the  hymn 
that  had  taken  her  fancy  before  they  went  out. 

I  will  now  show  my  reader  how  much  of  the  sermon  re- 
mained upon  Lucy's  mind.  She  sat  a  few  minutes  with  her 
grandmother,  and  then  told  her  that  she  felt  better,  but  would 
like  to  go  to  bed.  So  she  took  her  candle  and  went.  As  soon 
as  she  had  closed  the  door,  she  knelt  down  by  her  bedside,  and 
said  something  like  this — more  broken,  and  with  long  pauses 
between — but  like  this  : 

"  0  Jesus  Christ,  I  come.  I  don't  know  any  other  way  to 
come.  I  speak  to  thee.  Oh,  hear  me.  I  am  weary  and  heavy 
laden.  Gi"ve  me  rest.  Help  me  to  put  on  the  yoke  of  thy 
meekness  and  thy  lowliness  of  heart,  which  thou  sayest  will 
give  rest  to  our  souls.  I  cannot  do  it  without  thy  help.  Thou 
couldst  do  it  without  help.  I  cannot.  Teach  me.  Give  me 
thy  rest.  How  am  I  to  begin  ?  How  am  I  to  take  thy  yoke 
on  me  ?  I  must  be  meek.  I  am  very  troubled  and  vexed. 
Am  I  angry  ?  Am  I  unforgiving  ?  Poor  Thomas  !  Lord 
Jesus,  have  mercy  upon  Thomas.  He  does  not  know  what  he 
is  doing.  I  will  be  very  patient.  I  will  sit  with  my  hands 
folded,  and  bear  all  my  sorrow,  and  not  vex  Grannie  with  it ; 
and  I  won't  say  an  angry  word  to  Thomas.  But,  0  Lord, 
have  mercy  upon  him,  and  make  him  meek  and  lowly  of 
heart,  I  have  not  been  sitting  at  thy  feet  and  learning  of 
thee.  Thou  canst  take  all  my  trouble  away  by  making 
Thomas  good.  I  ought  to  have  tried  hard  to  keep  him  in  the 
way  his  mother  taught  him,  and  I  have  been  idle  and  self- 
indulgent,  and  taken  up  with  my  music  and  dresses.  I  have 
not  looked  to  my  heart  to  see  whether  it  was  meek  and  lowly 


150  Guild  Court. 

like  thine.  0  Lord,  thou  hast  given  me  everything,  and  I 
have  not  thought  about  thee.  I  thank  thee  that  thou  hast 
made  me  miserable,  for  now  I  shall  be  thy  child.  Thou  canst 
bring  Thomas  home  again  to  thee.  Thou  canst  make  him 
meek  and  lowly  of  heart,  and  give  rest  to  his  soul.     Amen." 

Is  it  any  wonder  that  she  should  have  risen  from  her  knees 
comforted  ?  I  think  not.  She  was  already — gentle  and  good 
as  she  had  always  been — more  meek  and  lowly.  She  had  be- 
gun to  regard  this  meekness  as  the  yoke  of  Jesus,  and  there- 
fore to  will  it.  Already,  in  a  measure,  she  was  a  partaker  of 
his  peace. 

Worn  out  by  her  suffering,  and  soothed  by  her  prayer,  she 
fell  asleep  the  moment  she  laid  her  head  upon  the  pillow. 
And  thus  Lucy  passed  the  night. 


CHAPTEE  XXI. 

MORE    SHUFFLING. 

Tom  went  home  the  next  night  with  a  racking  headache. 
Gladly  would  he  have  gone  to  Lucy  to  comfort  him,  but  he 
was  too  much  ashamed  of  his  behavior  to  her  the  night  before, 
and  too  uneasy  in  his  conscience.  He  was,  indeed,  in  an  ab- 
ject condition  of  body,  intellect,  and  morals.  He  went  at 
once  to  his  own  room  and  to  bed ;  fell  asleep ;  woke  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  miserably  gnawed  by  "Don  Worm,  the 
conscience ; "  tried  to  pray,  and  found  it  did  him  no  good ; 
turned  his  thoughts  to  Lucy,  and  burst  into  tears  at  the  recol- 
lection of  how  he  had  treated  her,  imagining  over  and  over 
twenty  scenes  in  which  he  begged  her  forgiveness,  till  he  fell 
asleep  at  last,  dreamed  that  she  turned  her  back  upon  him, 
and  refused  to  hear  him,  and  woke  in  the  morning  with  the 
resolution  of  going  to  see  her  that  night  and  confessing  every- 
thing. 

His  father  had  come  home  after  he  went  to  bed,  and  it  was 
with  great  trepidation  that  he  went  down  to  breakfast,  almost 
expecting  to  find  that  he  knew  already  of  his  relation  to  Lucy. 
But  Eichard  Boxall  was  above  that  kind  of  thing,  and  Mr. 
Worboise  was  evidently  free  from  any  suspicion  of  the  case. 


More  Shuffling.  151 

He  greeted  his  son  kindly,  or  rather  frankly,  and  seemed  to  be 
in  good  spirits. 

"  Our  friends  are  well  down  the  Channel  by  this  time,  with 
such  a  fair  wind,"  he  said.  "  Boxall's  a  lucky  man  to  be  able 
to  get  away  from  business  like  that.  I  wish  you  had  taken  a 
fancy  to  Mary,  Tom.  She's  sure  to  get  engaged  before  she 
comes  back.  Shipboard's  a  great  place  for  'getting  engaged. 
Some  hungry  fellow,  with  a  red  coat  and  an  empty  breeches- 
pocket,  is  sure  to  pick  her  up.  You  might  have  had  her  if 
you  had  liked.  However,  you  may  do  as  well  yet ;  and  you 
needn't  be  in  a  hurry  now.  It's  not  enough  that  there's  as 
good  fish  in  the  sea  :  they  must  come  to  your  net,  you  know." 

Tom  laughed  it  off,  went  to  his  office,  worked  the  weary  day 
through,  and  ran  round  to  Guild  Court  the  moment  he  left 
business. 

Lucy  had  waked  in  the  night  as  well  as  Tom  ;  but  she  had 
waked  to  the  hope  that  there  was  a  power  somewhere — a  power 
working  good,  and  upholding  them  that  love  it ;  to  the  hope 
that  a  thought  lived  all  through  the  dark,  and  would  one  day 
make  the  darkness  light  about  her ;  to  the  hope  that  a  heart 
of  love  and  help  was  at  the  heart  of  things,  and  would  show 
itself  for  her  need.  When,  therefore,  Tom  knocked — timidly 
almost — at  the  door,  and  opened  it  inquiringly,  she  met  him 
with  a  strange  light  in  her  pale  face,  and  a  smile  flickering 
about  a  lip  that  trembled  in  sympathy  with  her  rain-clouded 
eyes.  She  held  out  her  hand  to  him  cordially,  but  neither 
offered  to  embrace — Thomas  from  shame,  and  Lucy  from  a 
feeling  of  something  between  that  had  to  be  removed  before 
things  could  be  as  they  were — or  rather  before  their  outward 
behavior  to  each  other  could  be  the  same,  for  things  could  not 
to  all  eternity  be  the  same  again  :  they  must  be  infinitely  better 
and  more  beautiful,  or  cease  altogether. 

Thomas  gave  a  look  for  one  moment  full  in  Lucy's  eyes, 
and  then  dropped  his  own,  holding  her  still  by  the  consenting 
hand. 

"Will  you  forgive  me,  Lucy?"  he  said,  in  a  voice  partly 
choked  by  feeling,  and  partly  by  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Boxall, 
who,  however,  could  not  hear  what  passed  between  them,  for 
she  sat  knitting  at  the  other  end  of  the  large  room. 

"  Oh,  Tom  !"  answered  Lucy,  with  a  gentle  pressure  of  his 
hand. 

Now,  as  all  that  Tom  wanted  was  to  be  reinstated  in  her 
favor,  he  took  the  words  as  the  seal  of  the  desired  reconcilia- 
tion, and  went  no  further  with  any  confession.     The  words, 


152  Guild  Court. 

however,  meaning  simply  that  she  loved  him  and  wanted  to 
love  him,  ought  to  have  made  Tom  the  more  anxious  to  con- 
fess all — not  merely  the  rudeness  of  which  he  had  been  guilty 
and  which  had  driven  her  from  the  room,  but  the  wrong  he 
had  done  her  in  spending  the  evening  in  such  company ;  for 
surely  it  was  a  grievous  wrong  to  a  pure  girl  like  Lucy  to  spend 
the  space  between  the  last  and  the  next  pressure  of  her  hand 
in  an  atmosphere  of  vice.  But  the  cloud  cleared  from  his 
brow,  and,  with  a  sudden  reaction  of  spirits,  he  began  to  be 
merry.  To  this  change,  however,  Lucy  did  not  respond.  The 
cloud  seemed  rather  to  fall  more  heavily  over  her  countenance. 
She  turned  from  him,  and  went  to  a  chair  opposite  her  grand- 
mother. Tom  followed,  and  sat  down  beside  her.  He  was 
sympathetic  enough  to  see  that  things  were  not  right  between 
them  after  all.  But  he  referred  it  entirely  to  her  uneasiness 
at  his  parents'  ignorance  of  their  engagement. 

Some  of  my  readers  may  think  that  Lucy,  too,  was  to  blame 
for  want  of  decision ;  that  she  ought  to  have  refused  to  see 
Thomas  even  once  again,  till  he  had  made  his  parents  aware 
of  their  relation  to  each  other.  But  knowing  how  little  sym- 
pathy and  help  he  had  from  those  parents,  she  felt  that  to  be 
severe  upon  him  thus  would  be  like  turning  him  out  into  a 
snow-storm  to  find  his  way  home  across  a  desolate  moor ;  and 
her  success  by  persuasion  would  be  a  better  thing  for  Thomas 
than  her  success  by  compulsion.  No  doubt,  if  her  rights  alone 
had  to  be  considered,  and  not  the  necessities  of  Thomas's  moral 
nature,  the  plan  she  did  not  adopt  would  have  been  the  best. 
But  no  one  liveth  to  himself — not  even  a  woman  whose  dignity 
is  in  danger — and  Lucy  did  not  think  of  herself  alone.  Yet, 
for  the  sake  of  both,  she  remained  perfectly  firm  in  her  pur- 
pose that  Thomas  should  do  something. 

"  Your  uncle  has  said  nothing  about  that  unfortunate  rencon- 
tre, Lucy,"  said  Tom,  hoping  that  what  had  relieved  him 
would  relieve  her.  "  My  father  came  home  last  night,  and  the 
paternal  brow  is  all  serene." 

"  Then  I  suppose  you  said  something  about  it,  Tom  ?"  said 
Lucy,  with  a  faint  hope  dawning  in  her  heart. 

"Oh!  there's  time  enough  for  that.  I've  been  thinking 
about  it,  you  see,  and  I'll  soon  convince  you,"  he  added,  hur- 
riedly, seeing  the  cloud  grow  deeper  on  Lucy's  face.  "  I  must 
tell  you  something  which  I  would  rather  not'  have  mentioned." 

"Don't  tell  me,  if  you  ought  not  to  tell  me,  Tom,"  said 
Lucy,  whose  conscience  had  grown  more  delicate  than  ever, 
both  from  the  turning  of  her  own  face  toward  the  light,  and 


More  Shuffling.  153 

from  the  growing  feeling  that  Tom  was  not  to  be  trusted  as  a 
guide. 

"  There's  no  reason  why  I  shouldn't,"  returned  Tom.  "  It's 
only  this — that  my  father  is  vexed  with  me  because  I  wouldn't 
make  love  to  your  cousin  Mary,  and  that  I  have  let  her  slip 
out  of  my  reach  now ;  for,  as  he  says,  somebody  will  be  sure 
to  snap  her  up  before  she  comes  back.  So  it's  just  the  worst 
time  possible  to  tell  him  anything  unpleasant,  you  know.  I 
really  had  far  better  wait  till  the  poor  girl  is  well  out  to  sea, 
and  on2  my  father's  mind  ;  for  I  assure  you,  Lucy,  it  will  be 
no  joke  when  he  does  know.  He's  not  in  any  mood  for  the 
news  just  now,  I  can  tell  you.  And  then  my  mother's  away, 
too,  and  there's  nobody  to  stand  between  me  and  him." 

Lucy  made  no  reply  to  his  speech,  uttered  in  the  eagerness 
with  which  a  man,  seeking  to  defend  a  bad  position,  sends  one 
weak  word  after  another,  as  if  the  accumulation  of  poor  argu- 
ments would  make  up  for  the  lack  of  a  good  one.  She  sat  for 
a  long  minute  looking  down  on  a  spot  in  the  carpet — the  sight 
of  which  ever  after  was  the  signal  for  a  pain-throb  ;  then,  in 
a  hopeless  tone,  said,  with  a  great  sigh  : 

"  I've  done  all  I  can." 

The  indefiniteness  of  the  words  frightened  Thomas,  and  he 
began  again  to  make  his  position  good. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Lucy,"  he  said  ;  "I  give  you  my  promise 
that  before  another  month  is  over — that  is  to  give  my  father 
time  to  get  over  his  vexation — I  will  tell  him  all  about  it,  and 
take  the  consequences." 

Lucy  sighed  once  more,  and  looked  dissatisfied.  But  again 
it  passed  through  her  mind  that  if  she  were  to  insist  further, 
and  refuse  to  see  Thomas  until  he  had  complied  with  her  just 
desire,  she  would  most  likely  so  far  weaken,  if  not  break,  the 
bond  between  them,  as  to  take  from  him  the  only  influence 
that  might  yet  work  on  him  for  good,  and  expose  him  entirely 
to  such  influences  as  she  most  feared.  Therefore  she  said  no 
more.  But  she  could  not  throw  the  weight  off  her,  or  behave 
to  Thomas  as  she  had  behaved  hitherto.  They  sat  silent  for 
some  time — Thomas  troubled  before  Lucy, '  Lucy  troubled 
about  Thomas.  Then,  with  another  sigh,  Lucy  rose  and 
went  to  the  piano.  She  had  never  done  so  before  when 
Thomas  was  with  her,  for  he  did  not  care  much  about  her 
music.  Now  she  thought  of  it  as  the  only  way  of  breaking 
the  silence.     But  what  should  she  play  ? 

Then  came  into  her  memory  a  stately,  sweet  song  her  father 
used  to  sing.     She  did  not  know  where  he  got  either  the 


154  Guild  Court. 

words  or  the  music  of  it.  I  know  that  the  words  are  from 
Petrarch.  Probably  her  father  had  translated  them,  for  he 
had  been  much  in  Italy,  and  was  a  delicately  gifted  man.  But 
whose  was  the  music,  except  it  was  his  own,  I  do  not  know. 
And  as  she  sang  the  words,  Lucy  perceived  for  the  first  time 
how  much  they  meant,  and  how  they  belonged  to  her  ;  for  in 
singing  them  she  prayed  both  for  herself  and  for  Thomas. 

I  am  so  weary  with  the  burden  old 

Of  foregone  faults,  and  power  of  custom  base, 

That  much  I  fear  to  perish  from  the  ways, 

And  fall  into  my  enemy's  grim  hold. 

A  mighty  friend,  to  free  me,  though  self-sold 

Came,  of  his  own  ineffable  high  grace, 

Then  went,  and  from  my  vision  took  his  face. 

Him  now  in  vain  I  weary  to  behold. 

But  still  his  voice  comes  echoing  below  : 

O  ye  that  labor  !  see,  here  is  the  gate  ! 

Come  unto  me — the  way  all  open  lies  ! 

What  heavenly  grace  will — what  love — or  what  fate — 

The  glad  wings  of  a  dove  on  me  bestow, 

That  I  may  rest,  and  from  the  earth  arise  ?  * 

Her  sweet  tones,  the  earnest  music,  and  the  few  phrases  he 
could  catch  here  and  there,  all  had  their  influence  upon  Tom. 
They  made  him  feel.  And  with  that,  as  usual,  he  was  con- 
tent. Lucy  herself  had  felt  as  she  had  never  felt  before,  and, 
therefore,  sung  as  she  had  never  sung  before.  And  Tom  was 
astonished  to  find  that  her  voice  had  such  power  over  him, 
and  began  to  wonder  how  it  was  that  he  had  not  found  it  out 
before.  He  went  home  more  solemn  and  thoughtful  than  he 
had  ever  been. 

Still  he  did  nothing. 


CHAPTEE  XXII. 

A    COMING   EVENT. 


Thus  things  went  on  for  the  space  of  about  three  weeks. 
Tom  went  to  see  Lucy  almost  every  night,  and  sometimes 
stayed  late  ;  for  his  mother  was  still  from  home,  and  his  father 
was  careless  about  his  hours  so  long  as  they  were  decent. 


*  Petrarch's  sixtieth  Sonnet 


A  Coming  Event.  155 

Lucy's  face  continued  grave,  but  lost  a  little  of  its  trouble ; 
for  Tom  often  asked  her  to  sing  to  him  now,  and  she  thought 
she  was  gaining  more  of  the  influence  over  him  which  she  so 
honestly  wished  to  possess.  As  the  month  drew  toward  a 
close,  however,  the  look  of  anxiety  began  to  deepen  upon  her 
countenance. 

One  evening,  still  and  sultry,  they  were  together  as  usual. 
Lucy  was  sitting  at  the  piano,  where  she  had  just  been  sing- 
ing, and  Tom  stood  beside  her.  The  evening,  as  the  Italian 
poets  would  say,  had  grown  brown,  and  Mrs.  Boxall  was  just 
going  to  light  the  candles,  when  Tom  interposed  a  request  for 
continued  twilight. 

"  Please,  grannie,"  he  said — for  he  too  called  her  grannie — 
"  do  not  light  the  candles  yet.  It  is  so  sweet  and  dusky — just 
like  Lucy  here." 

"All  very  well  for  you,"  said  Mrs.  Boxall ;  "but  what  is  to 
become  of  me  ?  My  love-making  was  over  long  ago,  and  I 
want  to  see  what  I'm  about  now.  Ah  !  young  people,  your 
time  will  come  next.      Make  hay  while  the  sun  shines." 

"While  the  candle's  out,  you  mean,  grannie,"  said  Tom, 
stealing  a  kiss  from  Lucy. 

"  I  hear  more  than  you  think  for,"  said  the  cheery  old  wom- 
an. "I'll  give  you  just  five  minutes'  grace,  and  then  I 
mean  to  have  my  own  way.  I  am  not  so  fond  of  darkness,  I 
can  tell  you." 

"How  close  it  is  !"  said  Lucy.  "Will  you  open  the  win- 
dow a  little  wider,  Tom.     Mind  the  flowers." 

She  came  near  the  window,  which  looked  down  on  the  little 
stony  desert  of  Guild  Court,  arid  sank  into  a  high-backed 
chair  that  stood  beside  it. 

"lean  hardly  drag  one  foot  after  another,"  she  said,  "I 
feel  so  oppressed  and  weary." 

"And  I,"  said  Tom,  who  had  taken  his  place  behind  her, 
leaning  on  the  back  of  her  chair,  "am  as  happy  as  if  I  were 
in  Paradise." 

"  There  must  be  thunder  in  the  air,"  said  Lucy.  "  I  fancy 
I  smell  the  lightning  already.     Oh,  dear  ! " 

"Are  you  afraid  of  lightning,  then  ?"  asked  Thomas. 

"  I  do  not  think  I  am  exactly  ;  but  it  shakes  me  so  !  I  can't 
explain  what  I  mean.  It  affects  me  like  a  false  tone  on  the 
violin.     No,  that's  not  it.     I  can't  tell  what  it  is  like." 

A  fierce  flash  broke  in  upon  her  words.  Mrs.  Boxall  gave  a 
scream. 

"  The  Lord  be  about  us  from  harm  !"  she  cried. 


156  Guild  Court. 

Lucy  sat  trembling. 

Thomas  did  not  know  how  much  she  had  to  make  her  trem- 
ble. It  is  wonderful  what  can  be  seen  in  a  single  moment 
under  an  intense  light.  In  that  one  flash  Lucy  had  seen  Mr. 
Molken  and  another  man  seated  at  a  table,  casting  dice,  with 
the  eagerness  of  hungry  fiends  upon  both  their  faces. 

A  few  moments  after  the  first  flash,  the  wind  began  to  rise, 
and  as  flash  followed  flash,  with  less  and  less  of  an  interval, 
the  wind  rose  till  it  blew  a  hurricane,  roaring  in  the  chimney 
and  through  the  archway  as  if  it  were  a  wild  beast  caged  in 
Guild  Court,  and  wanting  to  get  out. 

When  the  second  flash  came,  Lucy  saw  that  the  blind  of 
Mr.  Molken's  window  was  drawn  down. 

All  night  long  the  storm  raved  about  London.  Chimney- 
pots clashed  on  the  opposite  pavements.  One  crazy  old  house, 
and  one  yet  more  crazy  new  one,  were  blown  down.  Even  the 
thieves  and  burglars  retreated  to  their  dens.  But  before  it 
had  reached  its  worst  Thomas  had  gone  home.  He  lay  awake 
for  some  time  listening  to  the  tumult  and  rejoicing  iu  it,  for  it 
roused  his  imagination  and  the  delight  that  comes  of  behold- 
ing danger  from  a  far-removed  safety — a  selfish  pleasure,  and 
ready  to  pass  from  a  sense  of  our  own  comfort  into  a  com- 
placent satisfaction  in  the  suffering  of  others. 

Lucy  lay  awake  for  hours.  There  was  no  more  lightning, 
but  the  howling  of  the  wind  tortured  her — that  is,  drew  dis- 
cords from  the  slackened  strings  of  the  human  instrument — 
her  nerves  ;  made  "broken  music  in  her  sides."  She  reaped 
this  benefit,  however,  that  such  winds  always' drove  her  to  her 
prayers.  On  the  wings  of  the  wind  itself,  she  hastened  her 
escape  "  from  the  windy  storm  and  tempest."  When  at  last 
she  fell  asleep,  it  was  to  dream  that  another  flash  of  light- 
ning— when  or  where  appearing  she  did  not  know — revealed 
Thomas  casting  dice  with  Molken,  and  then  left  them  lapt  in 
the  darkness  of  a  godless  world.  She  woke  weeping,  fell 
asleep  again,  and  dreamed  that  she  stood  in  the  darkness  once 
more,  and  that  somewhere  near  Thomas  was  casting  dice  with 
the  devil  for  his  soul,  but  she  could  neither  see  him  nor  cry  to 
him,  for  the  darkness  choked  both  voice  and  eyes.  Then  a 
hand  was  laid  upon  her  head,  and  she  heard  the  words — not  in 
her  ears,  but  in  her  heart — "  Be  of  good  cheer,  my  daughter." 
It  was  only  a  dream  ;  but  I  doubt  if  even-^I  must  not  name 
names,  lest  I  should  be  interpreted  widely  from  my  meaning — 
the  greatest  positivist  alive  could  have  helped  waking  with 
some  comfort  from  that  dream,  nay,  could  have  helped  deriving 


Mattie's  Illness.  157 

a  faint  satisfaction  from  it,  if  it  happened  to  return  upon  him 
during  the  day.  "But  in  no  such  man  would  such  a  dream 
arise,"  my  reader  may  object.  "Ah,  well,"  I  answer,  because 
I  haye  nothing  more  to  say.  And  perhaps  even  in  what  I 
have  written  I  may  have  been  doing  or  hinting  some  wrong  to 
some  of  the  class.  It  is  dreadfully  difficult  to  be  just.  It  is 
far  easier  to  be  kind  than  to  be  fair. 

It  was  not  in  London  or  the  Empire  only  that  that  storm 
raged  that  night.  From  all  points  of  the  compass  came  re- 
ports of  its  havoc.  Whether  it  was  the  same  storm,  however, 
or  another  on  the  same  night,  I  cannot  tell  ;  but  on  the  next 
morning  save  one,  a  vessel  passing  one  of  the  rocky  islets  be- 
longing to  the  Cape  Verde  group,  found  the  fragments  of  a 
wreck  floating  on  the  water.  The  bark  had  parted  amidships, 
for,  on  sending  a  boat  to  the  island,  they  found  her  stern  lying 
on  a  reef,  round  which  little  innocent  waves  were  talking  like 
human  children.  And  on  her  stern  they  read  her  name, 
Ningpo,  London.  On  the  narrow  strand  they  found  three 
bodies  :  one,  that  of  a  young  woman,  vestureless  and  broken. 
They  buried  them  as  they  could. 


CHAPTEE  XXIII. 

mattie's  illness. 

The  storm  of  that  night  beat  furiously  against  poor  Mattie's 
window,  and  made  a  dreadful  tumult  in  her  big  head.  When 
her  father  went  into  her  little  room,  as  was  his  custom  every 
morning  when  she  did  not  first  appear  in  his,  he  found  her 
lying  awake,  with  wide  eyes,  seemingly  unaware  of  what  was 
before  them.  Her  head  and  her  hand  were  both  hot ;  and 
when  her  father  at  length  succeeded  in  gaining  some  notice 
from  her,  the  words  she  spoke,  although  in  themselves  intelli- 
gible enough,  had  reference  to  what  she  had  been  going  through 
in  the  night,  in  regions  far  withdrawn,  and  conveyed  to  him 
no  understanding  of  her  condition  further  than  that  she  was 
wandering.  In  great  alarm  he  sent  the  char-woman  (whose 
morning  visits  were  Mattie's  sole  assistance  in  the  house,  for 
they  always  had  their  dinner  from  a  neighboring  cook-shop) 


158  Guild  Court. 

to  fetch  the  doctor,  while  he  went  up  the  court  to  ask  Lucy  to 
come  and  see  her. 

Lucy  was  tossing  in  a  troubled  dream  when  she  woke  to 
hear  the  knock  at  the  door.  Possibly  the  whole  dream  passed 
between  the  first  and  second  summons  of  the  bookseller,  who 
was  too  anxious  and  eager  to  shrink  from  rousing  the  little 
household.  She  thought  she  was  one  of  the  ten  yirgins  ;  but 
whether  one  of  the  wise  or  foolish  she  did  not  know.  She  had 
knocked  at  a  door,  and  as  it  opened,  her  lamp  went  out  in  the 
wind  it  made.  But  a  hand  laid  hold  of  hers  in  the  dark,  and 
would  have  drawn  her  into  the  house.  Then  she  knew  that 
she  was  holding  another  hand,  which  at  first  she  took  to  be 
that  of  one  of  her  sisters,  but  found  to  be  Thomas's.  She  clung 
to  it,  and  would  have  drawn  him  into  the  house  with  her,  but 
she  could  not  move  him.  And  still  the  other  hand  kept  draw- 
ing her  in.  She  woke  in  an  agony  just  as  she  was  losing  her 
hold  of  Thomas,  and  heard  Mr.  Kitely's  knock.  She  was  out 
of  bed  in  a  moment,  put  on  her  dressing-gown  and  her  shoes, 
and  ran  down  stairs. 

On  learning  what  was  the  matter  she  made  haste  to  dress, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  stood  by  Mattie's  bedside.  But  the  child 
did  not  know  her.  When  the  doctor  came,  he  shook  his  head, 
though  he  was  one  of  the  most  undemonstrative  of  his  profes- 
sion ;  and  after  prescribing  for  her,  said  she  must  be  watched 
with  the  greatest  care,  and  gave  Lucy  urgent  directions  about 
her  treatment.  Lucy  resolved  that  she  would  not  leave  her, 
and  began  at  once  to  make  what  preparations  were  necessary 
for  carrying  out  the  doctor's  instructions.  Mattie  took  the 
medicine  he  sent ;  and  in  a  little  while  the  big  eyes  began  to 
close,  sui.k  and  opened  again,  half  closed  and  then  started 
wide  open,  to  settle  their  long  lashes  at  last,  after  many  slow 
flutterings,  upon  the  pale  cheek  below  them.  Then  Lucy 
wrote  a  note  to  Mrs.  Morgenstern,  and  left  her  patient  to  run 
across  to  her  grandmother  to  consult  with  her  how  she  should 
send  it.  But  when  she  opened  the  door  into  the  court,  there 
was  Poppie,  who  of  course  flitted  the  moment  she  saw  her,  but 
only  a  little  way  off,  like  a  bold  bird. 

"Poppie,  dear  Poppie  !"  cried  Lucy,  earnestly,  "do  come 
here.     I  want  you." 

"  Bio  wed  if  I  go  there  again,  lady  ! "  said  Poppie,  without 
moving  in  either  direction, 

"  Come  here,  Poppie.  I  won't  touch  you— I  promise  you. 
I  wouldn't  tell  you  a  lie,  Poppie,"  she  added,  seeing  that  she 
made  no  impression  on  the  child. 


Mattie's  Illness.  159 

To  judge  by  the  way  Poppie  came  a  yard  nearer,  she  did 
not  seem  at  all  satisfied  by  the  assurance. 

"  Look  here,  Poppie.  There's  a  little  girl — you  know  her 
— Mattie — she's  lying  very  ill  here,  and  I  can't  leave  her.  Will 
you  take  this  letter  for  me — to  that  big  house  in  Wyvil  Place 
— to  tell  them  I  can't  come  to-day  ?  " 

"  They'll  wash  me,"  said  Poppie,  decisively. 

"  Oh,  no,  they  won't  again,  Poppie.  They  know  now  that 
-you  don't  like  it." 

"They'll  be  giving  me  something  I  don't  want,  then.  I 
know  the  sort  of  them. " 

"  You  needn't  go  into  the  house  at  all.  Just  ring  the  bell, 
and  give  the  letter  to  the  servant." 

Poppie  came  close  up  to  Lucy. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  lady  :  I'm  not  afraid  of  him.  He  won't 
touch  me  again.  If  he  do,  I'll  bite  worser  next  time.  But  I 
won't  run  errands  for  nothink.  Nobody  does,  miss.  You 
ain't  forgotten  what  you  guv  me  last  time  ?  Do  it  again,  and 
I'm  off." 

"A  good  wash,  Poppie — that's  what  I  gave  you  last  time." 

"  No,  miss,"  returned  the  child,  looking  up  in  her  face 
beseechingly.  "You  know  as  well  as  me."  And  she  held  up 
her  pretty  grimy  mouth,  so  that  her  meaning  could  not  be 
mistaken.  "  Old  Mother  Flanaghan  gave  me  a  kiss  once. 
You  remember  her  gin-bottle,  don't  you,  miss  ? "  she  added, 
still  holding  up  her  mouth. 

For  a  moment  Lucy  did  hesitate,  but  from  no  yielding  to 
the  repugnance  she  naturally  felt  at  dirt.  She  hesitated, 
thinking  to  make  a  stipulation  on  her  side,  for  the  child's 
good. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Poppie,"  she  said  ;  "  I  will  kiss  you  every 
time  you  come  to  me  with  a  clean  face,  as  often  as  you  like." 

Poppie's  dirty  face  fell.  She  put  out  her  hand,  took  the 
letter,  turned,  and  went  away  slowly. 

Lucy  could  not  bear  it.  She  darted  after  her,  caught  her, 
and  kissed  her.  The  child,  without  looking  round,  instantly 
scudded. 

Lucy  could  hardly  believe  her  eyes,  when,  going  down  at 
Mr.  Kitely's  call,  some  time  after,  she  found  Poppie  in  the 
shop. 

"She  says  she  wants  to  see  you,  miss,"  said  Kitely.  "I 
don't  know  what  she  wants.     Begging,  I  suppose." 

And  so  she  was.  But  all  her  begging  lay  in  the  cleanness 
and  brightness  of  her  countenance.     She  might  have  been  a 


160  Guild  Court 

little  saint  but  for  the  fact  that  her  aureole  was  all  in  her  face, 
and  around  it  lay  a  border  of  darkness  that  might  be  felt. 

"  Back  already  !"  said  Lucy,  in  astonishment. 

"Yes,  lady.  I  didn't  bite  him.  I  throwed  the  letter  at 
him,  and  he  throwed  it  out  again ;  and  says  I,  pickin'  of  it 
up,  'You'll  hear  o'  this  to-morrow,  Plush.'  And  says  he, 
'  Give  me  that  letter,  you  wagabones.'  And  I  throwed  it  at 
him  again,  and  he  took  it  up  and  looked  at  it,  and  took  it  in. 
And  here  I  am,  lady,"  added  Poppie,  making  a  display  of  her 
clean  face. 

Lucy  kissed  her  once  more,  and  she  was  gone  in  a  moment. 

While  Mattie  was  asleep  Lucy  did  all  she  could  to  change 
the  aspect  of  the  place. 

"  She  shan't  think  of  Syne  the  first  thing  when  she  comes 
to  herself,"  she  said. 

With  the  bookseller's  concurrence,  who  saw  the  reason  for 
it  the  moment  she  uttered  it,  she  removed  all  the  old  black 
volumes  within  sight  of  her  bed,  and  replaced  them  with  the 
brightest  bindings  to  be  found  in  the  shop.  She  would  rather 
have  got  rid  of  the  books  altogether  ;  but  there  was  no  time 
for  that  now.  Then  she  ventured,  finding  her  sleep  still  en- 
dure, to  take  down  the  dingy  old  chintz  curtains  from  her 
tent  bed,  and  replace  them  with  her  own  white  dimity.  These 
she  then  drew  close  round  the  bed,  and  set  about  cleaning  the 
window,  inside  and  out.  Her  fair  hands  were  perfectly  fit  for 
such  work,  or  any  other  labor  that  love  chose  to  require  of 
them.  "Entire  affection  hateth  nicer  hands,"  is  one  of  the 
profoundest  lines  in  all  Spenser's  profound  allegory.  But  she 
soon  found  that  the  light  would  be  far  too  much  for  her  little 
patient,  especially  as  she  had  now  only  white  curtains  to  screen 
her.  So  the  next  thing  was  to  get  a  green  blind  for  the  win- 
dow. Not  before  that  was  up  did  Mattie  awake,  and  then 
only  to  stare  about  her,  take  her  medicine,  and  fall  asleep 
again  ;   or,  at  least,  into  some  state  resembling  sleep. 

She  was  suffering  from  congestion  of  the  brain.  For  a  week 
she  continued  in  nearly  the  same  condition,  during  which 
time  Lucy  scarcely  left  her  bedside.  And  it  was  a  great 
help  to  her  in  her  own  trouble  to  have  such  a  charge  to  fulfill. 

At  length  one  morning,  when  the  sun  was  shining  clear  and 
dewy  through  a  gap  between  the  houses  of  the  court,  and  Lucy 
was  rising  early  according  to  her  custom— she  lay  on  a  sofa  in 
Mattie's  room — the  child  opened  her  eyes  and  saw.  Then  she 
closed  them  again,  and  Lucy  heard  her  murmuring  to  herself  : 
.  "Yes,  I  thought  so.     I'm  dead.     And  it  is  so  nice;  I've 


Matties  Illness.  161 

got  white  clouds  to  my  bed.  And  there's  Syne  cutting  away 
with  all  his  men — just  like  a  black  cloud — away  out  of  the 
world.  Ah  !  I  see  you,  Syne  ;  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself  for  worrying  me  as  you've  been  doing  all  this  time. 
You  see  it's  no  use.  You  ought  really  to  give  it  up.  He's 
too  much  for  you,  anyhow." 

This  she  said  brokenly  and  at  intervals.  The  whole  week 
had  been  filled  with  visions  of  conflict  with  the  enemy,  and 
the  Son  of  Man  had  been  with  her  in  those  visions.  The  spir- 
itual struggles  of  them  that  are  whole  are  the  same  in  kind  as 
those  of  this  brain-sick  child.  They  are  tempted  and  driven 
to  faithlessness,  to  self-indulgence,  to  denial  of  God  and  of  his 
Christ,  to  give  in — for  the  sake  of  peace,  as  they  think.  And 
I,  believing  that  the  very  hairs  of  our  heads  are  all  numbered, 
and  that  not  a  sparrow  can  fall  to  the  ground  without  our 
Father,  believe  that  the  Lord  Christ — I  know  not  how,  be- 
cause such  knowledge  is  too  wonderful  for  me — is  present  in 
the  soul  of  such  a  child,  as  certainly  as  in  his  Church,  or  in  the 
spirit  of  a  saint  who,  in  his  name,  stands  against  the  whole 
world.  There  are  two  ways  in  which  He  can  be  present  in  the 
Church,  one  in  the  ordering  of  the  confluence  and  working  of 
men's  deeds,  the  other  in  judgment :  but  he  can  be  present  in 
the  weakest  child's  heart,  in  the  heart  of  any  of  his  disciples, 
in  an  infinitely  deeper  way  than  those,  and  without  this  deeper 
presence,  he  would  not  care  for  the  outside  presence  of  the 
other  modes.  It  is  in  the  individual  soul  that  the  Spirit 
works,  and  out  of  which  he  sends  forth  fresh  influences.  And 
1  believe  that  the  good  fight  may  be  fought  amid  the  wildest 
visions  of  a  St.  Anthony,  or  even  in  the  hardest  confinement 
of  Bedlam.  It  was  such  a  fight,  perhaps,  that  brought  the 
maniacs  of  old  time  to  the  feet  of  the  Saviour,  who  gave  them 
back  their  right  mind.  Let  those  be  thankful  who  have  it  to 
fight  amid  their  brothers  and  sisters,  who  can  return  look  for 
look  and  word  for  word,  and  not  among  the  awful  visions  of 
a  tormented  brain. 

"  As  thick  and  numberless 
As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  sunbeams." 

Lucy  did  not  venture  to  show  herself  for  a  little  while,  but 
at  length  she  peeped  within  the  curtain,  and  saw  the  child 
praying  with  folded  hands.  Ere  she  could  withdraw,  she 
opened  her  eyes  and  saw  her. 

"  I  thought  I  was  in  heaven  ! "  she  said  ;  "  but  I  don't  mind, 
11 


162  Guild  Court. 

if  you're  there,  miss.  I've  been  seeing  you  all  through  it. 
But  it's  all  over  now,"  she  added,  with  a  sigh  of  relief." 

"  You  must  be  very  still,  dear  Mattie,"  said  Lucy.  "  You 
are  not  well  enough  to  talk  yet." 

"  I  am  quite  well,  miss  ;  only  sleepy,  I  think."  And  before 
Lucy  could  answer,  she  was  indeed  asleep  once  more. 

It  was  quite  another  fortnight  before  Lucy  ventured  to  give 
up  her  place  to  her  grandmother.  During  this  time,  she  saw 
very  little  of  Thomas — only  for  a  few  minutes  every  evening 
as  he  left  the  place — and  somehow  she  found  it  a  relief  not  to 
see  more  of  him. 

All  the  time  of  Mattie's  illness,  Mr.  Spelt  kept  coming  to  in- 
quire after  her.  He  was  in  great  concern  about  her,  but  he 
never  asked  to  see  her.  He  had  a  great  gift  in  waiting,  the 
little  man.  Possibly  he  fared  the  better,  like  Zaccheus,  who 
wanted  only  to  see,  and  was  seen.  But  perhaps  his  quietness 
might  be  partly  attributed  to  another  cause — namely,  that 
since  Mattie's  illness  he  had  brooded  more  upon  the  suspicion 
that  his  wife  had  had  a  child.  I  cannot  in  the  least  determine 
whether  this  suspicion  was  a  mere  fancy  or  not ;  but  I  know 
that  the  tailor  thought  he  had  good  grounds  for  it ;  and  it 
does  not  require  a  very  lawless  imagination  to  presume  the  thing 
possible. 

Every  day  of  those  three  weeks,  most  days  more  than  once 
or  twice  even,  Poppie  was  to  be  seen  at  one  hour  or  other  in 
Guild  Court,  prowling  about — with  a  clean  face,  the  only  part 
of  her,  I  am  all  but  certain,  that  was  clean — for. the  chance  of 
seeing  Lucy.  Prom  what  I  know  of  Poppie,  I  cannot  think 
that  it  was  anxiety  about  Mattie  that  brought  her  there.  I  do 
not  doubt  that  she  was  selfish — prowling  about  after  a  kiss 
from  Lucy.  And  as  often  as  Lucy  saw  her  she  had  what  she 
wanted. 

But  if  Lucy  did  not  see  her  sometimes,  at  least  there  was 
one  who  always  did  see  her  from  his  nest  in  the — rock,  I  was 
going  to  say,  but  it  was  only  the  wall.  I  mean,  of  course,  Mr. 
Spelt.  He  saw  her,  and  watched  her,  until  at  length,  as  he 
plied  his  needle,  the  fancy  which  already  occupied  his  brain 
began  to  develop  itself,  and  he  wondered  whether  that  Poppie 
might  not  be  his  very  lost  child.  Nor  had  the  supposition 
lasted  more  than  five  minutes  before  he  passionately  believed, 
or  at  least  passionately  desired  to  believe  it,  and  began  to  devise 
how  to  prove  it,  or  at  least  to  act  upon  it. 


Fishing  for  a  Daughter.  163 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

FISHING    FOE    A    DAUGHTEK. 

Mr.  Spelt  sat  in  his  watch-tower,  #ver  the  head  of  patiently 
cobbling  Mr.  Dolman,  reflecting.  He  too  was  trying  to  cob- 
ble— things  in  general,  in  that  active  head  of  his  beneath  its 
covering  of  heathery  hair.  But  he  did  not  confine  his  efforts 
to  things  in  general — one  very  particular  thing  had  its  share 
in  the  motions  of  his  spirit— how  to  prove  that  Poppie  was 
indeed  his  own  child.  He  had  missed  his  little  Mattie  much, 
and  his  child-like  spirit  was  longing  greatly  after  some  child- 
like companionship.  This,  in  Mattie's  case,  he  had  found  did 
him  good,  cleared  his  inward  sight,  helped  him  to  cobble  things 
even  when  her  questions  showed  him  the  need  of  fresh  patch- 
ing in  many  a  place  where  he  had  not  before  perceived  the 
rent  or  the  thin-worn  threads  of  the  common  argument  or 
belief.  And  the  thought  had  come  to  him  that  perhaps 
Mattie  was  taken  away  from  him  to  teach  him  that  he  ought 
not,  as  Mattie  had  said  with  regard  to  Mrs.  Morgenstern,  to 
cultivate  friendship  only  where  he  got  good  from  it.  The  very 
possibility  that  he  had  a  child  somewhere  in  London  seemed 
at  length  to  make  it  his  first  duty  to  rescue  some  child  or  other 
from  the  abyss  around  him,  and  they  were  not  a  few  swimming 
in  the  vast  vortex. 

Having  found  out  that  Mrs.  Flanaghan  knew  more  about 
Poppie  than  anyone  else,  and  that  she  crept  oftener  into  the 
bottom  of  an  empty  cupboard  in  her  room  than  anywhere  else, 
he  went  one  morning  to  see  whether  he  could  not  learn  some- 
thing from  the  old  Irishwoman.  The  place  looked  very  differ- 
ent tben  from  the  appearance  it  presented  to  Lucy  the  day  she 
found  it  inhabited  by  nobody,  and  furnished  with  nothing  but 
the  gin-bottle. 

When  the  tailor  opened  the  door,  he  found  the  room  swarm- 
ing with  children.  Though  it  was  hot  summer  weather,  a 
brisk  fire  burned  in  the  grate  ;  and  the  place  smelt  strongly  of 
reesty  bacon.  There  were  three  different  groups  of  children 
in  three  of  the  corners  :  one  of  them  laying  out  the  dead  body 
of  a  terribly  mutilated  doll ;  another,  the  tangle-haired  mem- 
bers of  which  had  certainly  had  no  share  in  the  bacon  but  the 
smell  of  it,  sitting  listlessly  on  the  floor,  leaning  their  backs 
against  the  wall,  apparently  without  hope  and  without  God  in 
the  world ;  one  of  the  third  group  searching  for  possible  crumbs 


164:  Guild  Court. 

where  she  had  just  had  her  breakfast,  the  other  two  lying  ill  of 
the  measles  on  a  heap  of  rags.  Mrs.  Flanaghan  was  in  the  act 
of  pouring  a  little  gin  into  her  tea.  The  tailor  was  quick- 
eyed,  and  took  in  the  most  of  this  at  a  glance.  But  he  thought 
he  saw  something  more,  namely,  the  sharp  eyes  of  Poppie 
peeping  through  the  crack  of  the  cupboard.  He  therefore 
thought  of  nothing  more  but  a  hasty  retreat,  for  Poppie  must 
not  know  he  came  after  her. 

"  Good-morning  to  you,  Mrs.  Flanaghan,"  he  said,  with 
almost  Irish  politeness.  Then,  at  a  loss  for  anything  more, 
he  ventured  to  add — "  Don't  you  think,  ma'am,  you'll  have 
too  much  on  your  hands  if  all  them  children  takes  after  the 
two  in  the  corner  ?  They've  got  the  measles,  ain't  they, 
ma'am  ?" 

"True  for  you,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Flanaghan,  whom  the 
gin  had  soothed  after  the  night's  abstinence.  "  But  we'll  soon 
get  rid  o'  the  varmint,"  she  said,  rising  from  her  seat. 
"  Praise  G-od  the  Father  !  we'll  soon  get  rid  o'  them.  Get 
out  wid  ye  !"  she  went  on,  stamping  with  her  foot  on  the 
broken  floor.  "  Get  out !  What  are  ye  doin'  i'  the  house 
when  ye  ought  to  be  enjoyin'  yerselves  in  the  fresh  air  ?  Glory 
be  to  God  ! — there  they  go,  as  I  tould  you.  And  now  what'U 
I  do  for  yerself  this  blessed  marnin'  ?  " 

By  this  time  the  tailor  had  made  up  his  mind  to  inquire 
after  a  certain  Irishman,  for  whom  he  had  made  a  garment  of 
fustian,  but  who  had  never  appeared  to  claim  it.  He  did  not 
expect  her  to  know  anything  of  the  man,  for  he  was  consid- 
erably above  Mrs.  Flanaghan's  level,  but  it  afforded  a  decent 
pretext.  Mrs.  Flanaghan,  however,  claimed  acquaintance 
with  him,  and  begged  that  the  garment  in  question  might  be 
delivered  into  her  hands  in  order  to  reach  him,  which  the 
tailor,  having  respect  both  to  his  word  and  his  work,  took  care 
not  to  promise. 

But  as  he  went  to  his  workshop,  he  thought  what  a  gulf  he 
had  escaped.  For  suppose  that  Mrs.  Flanaghan  had  been 
communicative,  and  had  proved  to  his  dissatisfaction  that  the 
girl  was  none  of  his  !  Why,  the  whole  remaining  romance  of 
his  life  would  have  been  gone.  It  was  far  better  to  think  that 
she  was  or  might  be  his  child,  than  to  know  that  she  was  not. 
And,  after  all,  what  did  it  matter  whether  she  was  or  was  not  ? 
— thus  the  process  of  thinking  went  on  in  the' tailor's  brain — 
was  she  not  a  child  ?  What  matter  whether  his  own  or  some  one 
else's  ?  God  must  have  made  her  all  the  same.  And  if  he 
were  to  find  his  own  child  at  last,  neglected  and  ignorant  and 


Fishing  for  a  Daughter.  165 

vicious,  could  he  not  pray  better  for  her  if  he  had  helped  the 
one  he  could  help  ?  Might  he  not  then  say,  "  0  Lord,  they 
took  her  from  me,  and  I  had  no  chance  with  her,  but  I  did. 
what  I  could — I  caught  a  wild  thing,  and  I  tried  to  make 
something  of  her,  and  she's  none  the  worse  for  it — do  Thou 
help  my  poor  child,  for  I  could  not,  and  Thou  canst.  I  give 
thee  back  thine,  help  mine."  Before  he  had  reached  his 
perch,  he  had  resolved  that  he  would  make  no  further  inquiry 
whatever  about  Poppie,  but  try  to  get  a  hold  of  her,  and  do 
for  her  what  he  could.  For  whether  he  was  her  father  or  not, 
neither  case  could  alter  the  facts,  that  she  was  worth  helping, 
and  that  it  would  be  very  hard  to  get  a  hold  of  her.  All  that 
Poppie  could  know  of  fathers  would  only  make  her  more  un- 
willing to  be  caught  if  she  had  a  suspicion  that  Mr.  Spelt  laid 
such  a  claim  to  her  ;  and  he  would  therefore  scheme  as  if 
their  nearest  common  relations  were  "the  grand  old  gardener 
and  his  wife,"  and  with  the  care  which  the  shy  startling  na- 
ture of  Poppie,  to  use  a  Chaucerian  word,  rendered  necessary. 
Tailors  have  time  to  think  about  things  ;  and  no  circum- 
stances are  more  favorable  to  true  thought  than  those  of  any 
work  which,  employing  the  hands,  leaves  the  head  free.  Be- 
fore another  day  had  passed  Mr.  Spelt  had  devised  his  bait. 

The  next  morning  came— a  lovely  morning  for  such  fishing 
as  he  contemplated.  Poppie  appeared  in  the  court,  prowling 
as  usual  in  the  hope  of  seeing  Lucy.  But  the  tailor  appeared 
to  take  no  notice  of  her.  Poppie's  keen  eyes  went  roving 
about  as  usual,  wide  awake  to  the  chance  of  finding  some- 
thing. Suddenly  she  darted  at  a  small  object  lying  near  the 
gutter,  picked  it  up,  put  it  in  her  mouth,  and  sucked  it  with 
evident  pleasure.  The  tailor  was  as  one  who  seeing  sees  not. 
Only  he  plied  his  needle  and  thread  more  busily,  casting  down 
sidelong  glances  in  the  drawing  of  the  same.  And  there  was 
no  little  triumph,  for  it  was  the  triumph  of  confidence  for  the 
future,  as  well  as  of  success  for  the  present,  in  each  of  those 
glances.     Suddenly  Poppie  ran  away. 

The  morning  after  she  was  there  again.  Half  involuntarily, 
I  suppose,  her  eyes  returned  to  the  spot  where  she  had  found 
the  bull's-eye.  There,  to  the  astonishment  even  of  Poppie, 
who  was  very  seldom  astonished  at  anything,  lay  another — a 
larger  one,  as  she  saw  at  a  glance,  than  the  one  she  had  found 
yesterday.  It  was  in  her  mouth  in  a  moment.  But  she  gave 
a  hurried  glance  round  the  court,  and  scudded  at  once.  Like 
the  cherub  that  sat  aloft  and  saw  what  was  going  to  come  of 
it  all,  the  little  tailor  drew  his  shortening  thread,  and  smiled 


166  Guild  Court 

somewhere  inside  his  impassive  face,  as  he  watched  the  little 
human  butterfly,  with  its  torn  wings,  lighting  and  flitting  as 
in  one  and  the  same  motion. 

The  next  morning  there  again  sat  Mr.  Spelt  at  his  work — 
working  and  watching.  "With  the  queerest  look  of  inquiry 
and  doubtful  expectation,  Poppie  appeared  from  under  the 
archway,  with  her  head  already  turned  toward  El  Dorado — 
namely,  the  flag-stone  upon  which  the  gifts  of  Providence  had 
been  set  forth  on  other  mornings.  There — could  she,  might 
she,  believe  her  eyes  ?— lay  a  splendid  polyhedral  lump  of  rock, 
white  as  snow,  and  veined  with  lovely  red.  It  was  not  quartz 
and  porphyry,  reader,  but  the  most  melting  compound  of 
sugar  and  lemon-juice  that  the  sweet  inventing  Genius — why 
should  she  not  have  the  name  of  a  tenth  muse  ?  Polyhedia, 
let  us  call  her— had  ever  hatched  in  her  brooding  brain,  as  she 
bent  over  melting  sugar  or  dark  treacle,  "in  linked  sweetness 
long  drawn  out."  This  time  Poppie  hesitated  a  little,  and 
glanced  up  and  around.  She  saw  nobody  but  the  tailor,  and 
he  was  too  cunning  even  for  her.  Busy  as  a  bee,  he  toiled 
away  lightly  and  earnestly.  Then,  as  if  the  sweetmeat  had 
been  a  bird  for  which  she  was  laying  snares,  as  her  would-be 
father  was  laying  them  for  her,  she  took  two  steps  nearer  on 
tiptoe,  then  stopped  and  gazed  again.  It  was  not  that  she 
thought  of  stealing,  any  more  than  the  birds  who  take  what 
they  find  in  the  fields  and  on  the  hedges  ;  it  was  only  from  a 
sort  of  fear  that  it  was  too  good  fortune  for  her,  and  that 
there  must  be  something  evanescent  about  it — wings  some- 
where. Or  perhaps  she  vaguely  fancied  there  must  be  some 
unfathomable  design  in  it,  awful  and  inscrutable,  and  there- 
fore glanced  around  her  once  more — this  time  all  but  surpris- 
ing the  tailor,  with  uplifted  head  and  the  eager  eyes  of  a 
fowler.  But  the  temptation  soon  overcame  any  suspicion 
she  might  have.  She  made  one  bound  upon  the  prize,  and 
scudded  as  she  had  never  scudded  before.  Mr.  Spelt  ran  his 
needle  in  under  the  nail  of  his  left  thumb,  and  so  overcame 
his  delight  in  time  to  save  his  senses. 

And  now  came  a  part  of  the  design  which  Mr.  Spelt  regarded 
as  a  very  triumph  of  cunning  invention.  That  evening  he 
drove  two  tiny  staples  of  wire — one  into  Mr.  Dolman's  door- 
post close  to  the  ground;  the  other  into  his  own.  The  next 
morning,  as  soon  as  he  arrived,  he  chose  a  thread  as  near  the 
color  of  the  flag-stones  that  paved  the  passage  as  he  could  find, 
fastened  one  end  with  a  plug  of  toffee  into  a  hole  he  bored 
with  his  scissors  in  another  splendor  of  rock,  laid  the  bait  in 


Fishing  for  a  Daughter.  167 

the  usual  place,  drew  the  long  thread  through  the  two  eyes  of 
the  staples,  and  sat  down  in  his  lair  with  the  end  attached  to 
the  little  finger  of  his  left  hand. 

The  time  arrived  about  which  Poppie  usually  appeared. 
Mr.  Spelt  got  anxious — nervously  anxious.  She  was  later  than 
usual,  and  he  almost  despaired  ;  but  at  length,  there  she  was, 
peeping  cautiously  round  the  corner  toward  the  trap.  She 
saw  the  bait — was  now  so  accustomed  to  it  that  she  saw  it 
almost  without  surprise.  She  had  begun  to  regard  it  as  most 
people  regard  the  operations  of  nature — namely,  as  that  which 
always  was  so  and  always  will  be  so,  and  therefore  has  no 
reason  in  it  at  all.  But  this  time  a  variety  in  the  phenomenon 
shook  the  couch  of  habitude  upon  which  her  mind  was  settling 
itself  in  regard  to  the  saccharine  bowlders  ;  for,  just  as  she 
stooped  to  snatch  it  to  herself  and  make  it  her  own,  away  it 
went  as  if  in  terror  of  her  approaching  fingers — but  only  to 
the  distance  of  half  a  yard  or  so.  Eager  as  the  tailor  was — 
far  more  eager  to  catch  Poppie  than  Poppie  was  to  catch  the 
lollypop — he  could  scarcely  keep  his  countenance  when  he  saw 
the  blank  astonishment  that  came  over  Poppie's  pretty  brown 
face.  Certainly  she  had  never  seen  a  living  lollypop,  yet  mo- 
tion is  a  chief  sign  of  life,  and  the  lollypop  certainly  moved. 
Perhaps  it  would  have  been  wiser  to  doubt  her  senses  first,  but 
Poppie  had  never  yet  found  her  senses  in  the  wrong,  and 
therefore  had  not  learned  to  doubt  them.  Had  she  been  a 
child  of  weak  nerves,  she  might  have  recoiled  for  a  moment 
from  a  second  attempt,  but  instead  of  that  she  pounced  upon 
it  again  so  suddenly  that  the  Archimago  of  the  plot  was 
unprepared.  He  gave  his  string  a  tug  only  just  as  she  seized 
it,  and,  fortunately,  the  string  came  out  of  the  plugged  hole. 
Poppie  held  the  bait,  and  the  fisherman  drew  in  his  line  as 
fast  as  possible,  that  his  fish  might  not  see  it. 

The  motions  of  Poppie's  mind  were  as  impossible  to  analyze 
as  those  of  a  field-mouse  or  hedge-sparrow.  This  time  she 
began  at  once  to  gnaw  the  sugar,  staring  about  her  as  she  did 
so,  and  apparently  in  no  hurry  to  go.  Possibly  she  was  men- 
tally stunned  by  the  marvel  of  the  phenomenon,  but  I  do  not 
think  so.  Poppie  never  could  be  much  surprised  at  anything. 
Why  should  anything  be  surprising  ?  To  such  a  child  every- 
thing was  interesting — nothing  overwhelming.  She  seemed 
constantly  shielded  by  the  divine  buckler  of  her  own  exposure 
and  helplessness.  You  could  have  thought  that  God  had  said  to 
her,  as  to  his  people  of  old,  "Fear  not  thou,  0  Poppie,"  and 
therefore  Poppie  did  not  fear,  and  found  it  answer.     It  is  a 


168  Guild  Court. 

terrible  doctrine  that  would  confine  the  tender  care  of  the 
Father  to  those  that  know  and  acknowledge  it.  He  carries 
the  lambs  in  his  bosom,  and  who  shall  say  when  they  cease  to 
be  innocent  lambs  and  become  naughty  sheep  ?  Even  then  he 
goes  into  the  mountains,  and  searches  till  he  finds. 

Not  yet  would  the  father  aspirant  show  his  craft.  When  he 
saw  her  stand  there  gnawing  his  innocent  bait,  he  was  sorely 
tempted  to  call,  in  the  gentlest  voice,  "  Poppie,  dear  ; "  but, 
like  a  fearful  and  wise  lover,  who  dreads  startling  the  maiden 
he  loves,  he  must  yet  dig  his  parallels  and  approach  with  guile. 
He  would  even  refine  upon  his  own  cunning.  The  next  morn- 
ing his  bait  had  only  a  moral  hook  inside,  that  is,  there  was  no 
string  attached.  But  now  that  happened  which  he  had  all 
along  feared.  A  child  of  the  court—in  which  there  were  not 
more  than  two,  I  think— whom  Mr.  Spelt  regarded,  of  course, 
as  a  stray  interloper,  for  had  she  not  enough  of  the  good  things 
already  ? — spied  the  sweetmeat,  and  following  the  impulses  of 
her  depraved  humanity,  gobbled  it  up  without  ever  saying, 
like  heathen  Cassius,  "  By  your  leave,  gods."  Presently  after 
Poppie  appeared,  looked,  stared — actually  astonished  now — 
and,  with  fallen  face,  turned  and  went  away.  Whether  she 
or  her  cunning  enemy  overhead  was  the  more  disaj)pointed,  I 
will  not  venture  to  determine,  but  Mr.  Spelt  could  almost 
have  cried.  Four-and-twenty  long  tedious  hours  of  needle 
and  thread  must  pass  before  another  chance  would  arrive — 
and  the  water  so  favorable,  with  the  wind  from  the  right 
quarter  just  clouding  its  surface,  and  the  fly  so  taking ! — it 
was  hard  to  bear.  He  comforted  himself,  however,  by  falling 
back  upon  a  kind  of  divine  fatalism  with  which  God  had 
endowed  him,  saying  to  himself,  "Well,  it's  all  for  the  best," 
— a  phrase  not  by  any  means  uncommon  among  people  de- 
voutly inclined ;  only  there  was  this  difference  between  most 
of  us  and  Mr.  Spelt,  that  we  follow  the  special  aphorism  with 
a  sigh,  while  he  invariably  smiled  and  brightened  up  for  the 
next  thing  he  had  to  do.  To  say  things  are  all  right  and  yet 
gloom  does  seem  rather  illogical  in  you  and  me,  reader,  does  it 
not  ?  Logical  or  illogical,  it  was  not  Spelt's  way  anyhow.  He 
began  to  whistle,  which  he  never  did  save  upon  such  occasions 
when  the  faithful  part  of  him  set  itself  to  conquer  the  faith- 
less. 

But  he  would  try  the  bait  without  the  line-once  more.  Am 
I  wearying  my  reader  with  the  process  ?  I  would  not  will- 
ingly do  so,  of  course.  But  I  fancy  he  would  listen  to  this 
much  about  a  salmon  any  day,  so  I  will  go  on  with  my  child. 


Mr.  Fuller.  169 

Poppie  came  the  next  morning,  notwithstanding  her  last  dis- 
appointment, fonnd  the  bull's-eye,  for  such  I  think  it  was  this 
time,  took.it,  and  sucked  it  to  nothing  upon  the  spot — did  it 
leisurely,  and  kept  looking  about — let  us  hope  for  Lucy,  and 
that  Poppie  considered  a  kiss  a  lovelier  thing  still  than  a  lolly- 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Spelt  tried  the  string  again,  watched 
it  better,  and  by  a  succession  of  jerks,  not  slow  movements, 
lest,  notwithstanding  the  cunning  of  the  color,  she  should  see 
the  string,  drew  her  step  by  step  in  the  eagerness  of  wonder,  as 
well  as  of  that  appetite  which  is  neither  hunger  nor  thirst, 
and  yet  concerned  with  the  same  organs,  but  for  which  we 
have,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  no  word,  I  mean  the  love  of  sweets, 
to  the  very  foot  of  his  eyrie.  When  she  laid  hold  of  the  object 
desired  at  the  door-post,  he  released  it  by  a  final  tug  against 
the  eye  of  the  staple.  Before  she  could  look  up  from  securing 
it,  another  lump  of  rock  fell  at  her  feet.  Then  she  did  look 
up,  and  saw  the  smiling  face  of  the  tailor  looking  out  (once 
more  like  an  angel  over  a  cloudy  beam)  over  the  threshold,  if 
threshold  it  could  properly  be  called,  of  his  elevated  and  stair- 
less door.  She  gave  back  a  genuine  whole-faced  smile,  and 
turned  and  scudded.  The  tailor's  right  hand  shuttled  with 
increased  vigor  all  the  rest  of  that  day. 


CHAPTEE  XXV. 

ME.    FULLER. 

One  evening  Lucy  was  sitting  as  usual  with  Mattie,  for  the 
child  had  no  friends  but  her  and  grannie  ;  her  only  near  rela- 
tive was  a  widowed  sister  of  her  father,  whom  she  did  not  like. 
She  was  scarcely  so  well  as  she  had  been  for  the  last  few  days, 
and  had  therefore  gone  early  to  bed,  and  Lucy  sat  beside  her 
to  comfort  her.  By  this  time  she  had  got  the  room  quite  trans- 
formed in  appearance — all  the  books  out  of  it,  a  nice  clean 
paper  up  on  the  walls,  a  few  colored  prints  from  the  Illustra- 
ted London  News  here  and  there,  and,  in  fact,  the  whole  made 
fit  for  the  abode  of  a  delicate  and  sensitive  child. 

"  What  shall  I  read  to-night,  Mattie  ? "  she  asked.  For 
Mattie  must  always  have  something  read  to  her  out  of  the  New 


170  Guild  Court. 

Testament  before  she  went  to  sleep  ;  Mr.  Spelt  had  inaugura- 
ted the  custom. 

"Oh,  read  about  the  man  that  sat  in  his  Sunday  clothes," 
said  Mattie. 

"I  don't  know  that  story,"  returned  Lucy. 

"  I  wish  dear  mother  was  here,"  said  Mattie,  with  the  pet- 
tishness  of  an  invalid.  "  He  would  know  what  story  I  mean — 
that  he  would." 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  Mr.  Spelt  ?  "  suggested  Lucy.  "  He 
was  asking  about  you  not  an  hour  ago." 

"Why didn't  he  come  up,  then  ?  I  wonder  he  never  comes 
to  see  me." 

"I  was  afraid  you  weren't  strong  enough  for  it,  Mattie. 
But  I  will  run  and  fetch  him  now,  if  he's  not  gone. " 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  do,  please.  I  know  he's  not  gone,  fori  have  not 
heard  his  step  yet.  I  always  watch  him  out  of  the  court  when 
I'm  in  bed.     He  goes  right  under  me." 

Lucy  went,  and  Mr.  Spelt  came  gladly. 

"  Well,  mother,"  said  Mattie,  holding  out  a  worn  little  cloud 
of  a  hand,  "  how  do  you  do  ?  " 

Mr.  Spelt  could  hardly  answer  for  emotion.  He  took  the 
little  hand  in  his,  and  it  seemed  to  melt  away  in  his  grasp,  till 
he  could  hardly  feel  it. 

"  Don't  cry,  mother.  I  am  very  happy.  I  do  believe  I've  seen 
the  last  of  old  Syne.  I  feel  just  like  the  man  that  had  got  his 
Sunday  clothes  on,  you  know.  You  see  what  a  pretty  room 
Miss  Burton  has  made,  instead  of  all  those  ugly  books  that 
Syne  was  so  fond  of  :  well,  my  poor  head  feels  just  like  this 
room,  and  I'm  ready  to  listen  to  anything  about  Somebody. 
Eead  about  the  man  in  his  Sunday  clothes." 

But  Mr.  Spelt,  no  less  than  Lucy,  was  puzzled  as  to  what 
the  child  meant. 

"I  wish  that  good  clergyman  that  talked  about  Somebody's 
burden  being  easy  to  carry,  would  come  and  see  me,"  she  said. 
"  I  know  he  would  tell  me  the  story.  He  knows  all  about 
Somebody." 

"  Shall  I  ask  Mr.  Potter  to  come  and  see  you  ?  "  said  Spelt, 
who  had  never  heard  of  Mr.  Fuller  by  name,  or  indeed  any- 
thing about  him,  but  what  Mattie  had  told  him  before  she  was 
taken  ill. 

"I  don't  mean  Mr.  Potter — you  know  well  enough.  He's 
always  pottering,"  said  the  child,  with  a  laugh. 

She  had  not  yet  learned  to  give  honor  where  honor  is  not 
due ;  or,  rather,  she  had  never  been  young  enough  to  take 


Mr.  Fuller.  171 

seeming  for  being,  or  place  for  character.  The  consequence 
was  that  her  manners  and  her  modesty  had  suffered — not  her 
reverence  or  her  heart. 

"  I  want  to  see  the  gentleman  that  really  thinks  it's  all 
about  something,"  she  resumed.  "Do  you  know  where  he 
lives,  Miss  Burton  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Lucy,  "but  I  will  find  out  to-morrow,  and 
ask  him  to  come  and  see  you." 

"  Well,  that  will  be  nice,"  returned  Mattie.  "  Read  to  me, 
Mr.  Spelt — anything  you  like. " 

The  little  tailor  was  very  shy  of  reading  before  Lucy,  but 
Mattie  would  hear  of  nothing  else,  for  she  would  neither  allow 
Lucy  to  read,  nor  yet  to  go  away. 

"  Don't  mind  me,  Mr.  Spelt,"  said  Lucy,  beseechingly.  "We 
are  all  friends,  you  know.  If  we  belong  to  the  Somebody  Mat- 
tie  speaks  about  we  needn't  be  shy  of  each  other." 

Thus  encouraged,  Mr.  Spelt  could  refuse  no  longer.  He 
read  about  the  daughter  of  Jairus  being  made  alive  again. 

"Oh,. dear  me  !"  said  Mattie.  "And  if  I  had  gone  dead 
when  Syne  was  tormenting  of  me,  He  could  have  come  into 
the  room,  and  taken  me  by  the  hand  and  said,  '  Daughter,  get 
up.'  How  strange  it  would  be  if  He  said,  'Daughter'  to  me, 
for  then  He  would  be  my  father,  you  know.  And  they  say 
He's  a  king.  I  wonder  if  that's  why  Mr.  Kitely  calls  me  prin- 
cess. To  have  Mr.  Kitely  and  Somebody,"  she  went  on  mus- 
ingly, "both  for  fathers  is  more  than  I  can  understand. 
There's  something  about  godfathers  and  godmothers  in  the 
Catechism,  ain't  there,  Miss  Burton  ?  "  Then,  without,  wait- 
ing for  a  reply,  she  went  on,  "  I  wish  my  father  would  go  and 
hear  what  that  nice  gentleman — not  Mr.  Potter — has  got  to 
say  about  it.  Miss  Burton,  read  the  hymn  about  blind  Barti- 
meus,  and  that'll  do  mother  good,  and  then  I'll  goto  sleep." 

The  next  day,  after  she  came  from  the  Morgensterns',  Lucy 
went  to  find  Mr.  Fuller.  She  had  been  to  the  week-evening 
service  twice  since  Mattie  began  to  recover,  but  she  had  no 
idea  where  Mr.  Fuller  lived,  and  the  only  way  she  could  think 
of  for  finding  him  was  to  ask  at  the  warehouses  about  the 
church.  She  tried  one  after  another,  but  nobody  even  knew 
that  there  was  any  service  there — not  to  say  where  the  evening 
preacher  lived.  With  its  closed,  tomb-like  doors,  and  the 
utter  ignorance  of  its  concerns  manifested  by  the  people  of  the 
neighborhood,  the  great  ugly  building  stood  like  some  mauso- 
leum built  in  honor  of  a  custom  buried  beneath  it,  a  monu- 
ment of  the  time  when  men  could  buy  and  sell  and  worship 


172  Guild  Court. 

God.  So  Lucy  put  off  further  inquiry  till  the  next  week- 
evening  service,  for  she  had  found  already  that  Mr.  Fuller 
had  nothing  to  do  with  the  Sunday  services  in  that  church. 

How  she  wished  that  she  could  take  Thomas  with  her  the 
next  time  she  went  to  receive  Mr.  Fuller's  teaching  !  She  had 
seen  very  little  of  Thomas,  as  I  have  said,  and  had  been  so 
much  occupied  with  Mattie,  that  she  did  not  even  know 
whether  he  had  fulfilled  his  promise  about  telling  his  father. 
I  suspect,  however,  that  she  had  been  afraid  to  ask  him,  fore- 
boding the  truth  that  he  had  in  fact  let  his  promise  lapse  in 
time,  and  was  yet  no  nearer  toward  its  half  redemption  in  act, 
which  was  all  that  remained  possible  now.  And,  alas  !  what 
likelihood  was  there  of  the  good  seed  taking  good  root  in  a 
heart  where  there  was  so  little  earth  ?_ 

Finding  Mr.  Kitely  in  his  shop  door,  Lucy  stopped  to  ask 
after  Mattie,  for  she  had  not  seen  her  that  morning.  And 
then  she  told  him  what  she  had  been  about,  and  her  want  of 
success. 

"  What  does  the  child  want  a  clergyman  for  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Kitely,  with  some  tone  of  dissatisfaction.  "  Im  sure  you're 
better  than  the  whole  lot  of  them,  miss.  Now  I  could  listen 
to  you — " 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  "  retorted  Lucy,  smiling ;  for 
she  wanted  to  stop  the  eulogium  upon  herself. 

"  Because  I've  listened  to  you  outside  the  door,  Miss  Burton, 
when  you  was  a-talking  to  Mattie  inside." 

"  That  wasn't  fair,  Mr.  Kitely." 

"No  more  it  wasn't,  but  it's  done  me  no  harm,  nor  you 
neither.  But  for  them  parsons ! — they're  neither  men  nor 
women.     I  beg  their  pardons — they  are  old  wives." 

"  But  are  you  sure  that  you  know  quite  what  you  are  talking 
about  ?  I  think  there  must  be  all  sorts  of  them  as  well  as  of 
other  people.  I  wish  you  would  come  and  hear  Mr.  Fuller 
some  evening  with  Mattie  and  me  when  she's  better.  You 
would  allow  that  he  talks  sense,  anyhow." 

"  I  ain't  over  hopeful,  miss.  And  to  tell  the  truth,  I  don't 
much  care.  I  don't  think  there  can  be  much  in  it.  It's 
all  an  affair  of  the  priests.  To  get  the  upper  hand  of  people 
they  work  on  their  fears  and  their  superstitions.  But  I  don't 
doubt  some  of  them  may  succeed  in  taking  themselves  in,  and 
so  go  on  like  the  fox  that  had  lost  his  tail,  trying  to  make 
others  cut  off  theirs  too." 

Lucy  did  not  reply,  because  she  had  nothing  at  hand  to  say. 
The  bookseller  feared  he  had  hurt  her. 


Mr.  Fuller.  173 

"  And  so  you  couldn't  find  this  Mr.  Fuller  ?  Well,  you 
leave  it  to  me.  I'll  find  him,  and  let  you  know  in  the  after- 
noon." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Kitely.  Just  tell  Mattie,  will  you  ?  I 
must  run  home  now,  but  I'll  come  in  in  the  afternoon  to  hear 
how  you  have  succeeded." 

About  six  o'clock,  Lucy  reentered  Mr.  Kitely's  shop,  re- 
ceived the  necessary  directions  to  find  the  "parson,"  ran  up 
to  tell  Mattie  that  she  was  going,  for  the  child  had  not  come 
down  stairs,  and  then  set  out. 

To  succeed  she  had  to  attend  to  Mr.  Kitely's  rather  minute 
instructions  ;  for  although  the  parsonage  lay  upon  the  bank 
of  one  of  the  main  torrents  of  city  traffic,  it  was  withdrawn 
and  hidden  behind  shops  and  among  offices,  taverns,  and 
warehouses.  After  missing  the  most  direct  way,  she  arrived 
at  last,  through  lanes  and  courts,  much  to  her  surprise,  at  the 
border  of  a  green  lawn  on  the  opposite  side  of  which  rose  a  tree 
that  spread  fair  branches  across  a  blue  sky  filled  with  pearly 
light,  and  blotted  here  and  there  with  spongy  clouds  that  had 
filled  themselves  as  full  of  light  as  they  could  hold.  The 
other  half  of  the  branches  of  the  same  tree  spread  themselves 
across  the  inside  of  a  gable,  all  that  remained  of  a  tavern  that 
was  being  pulled  down.  The  gable  was  variegated  with  the 
incongruous  papers  of  many  small  rooms,  and  marked  with 
the  courses  of  stairs  and  the  holes  for  the  joints  of  the  floors  ; 
and  this  dreariness  was  the  background  for  the  leaves  of  the 
solitary  tree.  On  the  same  side  was  the  parsonage,  a  long, 
rather  low,  and  country-looking  house,  from  the  door  of  which 
Lucy  would  not  have  been  surprised  to  see  a  troop  of  children 
burst  with  shouts  and  laughter,  to  tumble  each  other  about 
upon  the  lawn,  as  smooth,  at  least,  if  not  as  green,  as  any  of 
the  most  velvety  of  its  kind.  One  side  of  the  square  was 
formed  by  a  vague,  commonplace  mass  of  dirty  and  expression- 
less London  houses — what  they  might  be  used  for  no  one 
could  tell — one  of  them,  probably,  an  eating-house — mere 
walls  with  holes  to  let  in  the  little  light  that  was  to  be  had. 
The  other  side  was  of  much  the  same  character,  only  a  little 
better  ;  and  the  remaining  side  was  formed  by  the  long  barn- 
like wall  of  the  church,  broken  at  regular  intervals  by  the 
ugly  windows,  with  their  straight  sides  filled  with  parallelo- 
grams, and  their  half -circle  heads  filled  with  trapeziums— the 
ugliest  window  that  can  be  made,  except  it  be  redeemed  with 
stained  glass,  the  window  that  makes  the  whole  grand  stretch 
of  St.   Paul's  absolutely  a  pain.     The  church  was  built  of 


174:  Guild  Court 

brick,  nearly  black  below,  but  retaining  in  the  upper  part  of 
the  square  tower  something  of  its  original  red.  All  this  Lucy 
took  in  at  a  glance  as  she  went  up  to  the  door  of  the  parson- 
age. 

She  was  shown  into  a  small  study,  where  Mr.  Fuller  sat. 
She  told  him  her  name,  that  she  had  been  to  his  week-evening 
service  with  Mattie,  and  that  the  child  was  ill  and  wanted  to 
see  him. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Mr.  Fuller.  "Some  of  the 
city  clergymen  have  so  little  opportunity  of  being  useful !  I 
am  truly  grateful  to  you  for  coming  to  me.  A  child  in  my 
parish  is  quite  a  godsend  to  me — I  do  not  use  the  word  irrev- 
erently— I  mean  it.  You  lighten  my  labor  by  the  news.  Per- 
haps I  ought  to  say  I  am  sorry  she  is  ill.  I  dare  say  I  shall 
be  sorry  when  I  see  her.  But  meantime,  I  am  very  glad  to  be 
useful." 

He  promised  to  call  the  next  day ;  and,  after  a  little  more 
talk,  Lucy  took  her  leave. 

Mr.  Fuller  was  a  middle-aged  man,  who  all  his  conscious 
years  had  been  trying  to  get  nearer  to  his  brethren,  moved 
thereto  by  the  love  he  bore  to  the  Father.  The  more  anxious 
he  was  to  come  near  to  God,  the  more  he  felt  that  the  high- 
road to  God  lay  through  the  forest  of  humanity.  And  he  had 
learned  that  love  is  not  a  feeling  to  be  called  up  at  will  in  the 
heart,  but  the  reward  as  the  result  of  an  active  exercise  of  the 
privileges  of  a  neighbor. 

Like  the  poor  parson  loved  of  Chaucer,  "  he  waited  after  no 
pomp  ne  reverence  ; "  and  there  was  no  chance  of  preferment 
coming  in  search  of  him.  He  was  only  a  curate  still.  But 
the  incumbent  of  St.  Amos,  an  old  man,  with  a  grown-up 
family,  almost  unfit  for  duty,  and  greatly  preferring  his  little 
estate  in  Kent  to  the  city  parsonage,  left  everything  to  him, 
with  much  the  same  confidence  he  would  have  had  if  Mr. 
Fuller  had  been  exactly  the  opposite  of  what  he  was,  paying 
him  enough  to  live  upon — indeed,  paying  him  well  for  a  curate. 
It  was  not  enough  to  marry  upon,  as  the  phrase  is,  but  Mr. 
Fuller  did  not  mind  that,  for  the  only  lady  he  had  loved,  or 
ever  would  love  in  that  way,  was  dead  ;  and  all  his  thoughts 
for  this  life  were  bent  upon  such  realizing  of  divine  theory 
about  human  beings,  and  their  relation  to  God  and  to  each 
other,  as  might  make  life  a  truth  and  a  -gladness.  It  was 
therefore  painful  to  him  to  think  that  he  was  but  a  city 
curate,  a  being  whose  thirst  after  the  relations  of  his  calling 
among  his  fellows  reminded  himself  of  that  of  the  becalmed 


Mr.  Fuller.  175 

mariner,  with  "water,  water  everywhere,  but  water  none  to 
drink."  He  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  them,  nor 
they  with  him.  Perhaps  not  one  individual  of  the  crowds 
that  passed  his  church  every  hour  in  the  week  would  be  within 
miles  of  it  on  the  Sunday  ;  for  even  of  those  few  who  resided 
near  it,  most  forsook  the  place  on  the  day  of  rest,  especially  in 
the  summer  ;  and  few  indeed  were  the  souls  to  whom  he  could 
offer  the  bread  of  life.  He  seemed  to  himself  to  be  greatly 
overpaid  for  the  work  he  had  it  in  his  power  to  do — in  his  own 
parish,  that  is.  He  had  not  even  any  poor  to  minister  to. 
He  made  up  for  this  by  doing  his  best  to  help  the  clergyman 
of  a  neighboring  parish,  who  had  none  but  poor  ;  but  his  heart 
at  times  burned  within  him  to  speak  the  words  he  loved  best 
to  speak  to  such  as  he  could  hope  had  the  ears  to  hear  them  ; 
for  among  the  twelve  people — a  congregation  he  did  not  always 
have — that  he  said  he  preferred  to  the  thousand,  he  could 
sometimes  hardly  believe  that  there  was  one  who  heard  and 
understood.  More  of  his  reflections  and  resolutions,  in  regard 
to  this  state  of  affairs,  we  shall  fall  in  with  by  and  by.  Mean- 
time, my  reader  will  believe  that  this  visit  of  Lucy  gave  him 
pleasure  and  hope  of  usefulness.  The  next  morning  he  was  in 
Mr.  Kitely's  shop  as  early  as  he  thought  the  little  invalid  would 
be  able  to  see  him. 

"Good-morning,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Kitely,  brusquely.  "What 
can  I  do  for  you  this  morning  ? " 

If  Mr.  Fuller  had  begun  looking  at  his  books,  Kitely  would 
have  taken  no  notice  of  him.  He  might  have  stayed  hours, 
and  the  bookseller  would  never  have  even  put  a  book  in  his 
way ;  but  he  looked  as  if  he  wanted  something  in  particular, 
and  therefore  Mr.  Kitely  spoke. 

"You  have  a  little  girl  that's  not  well,  haven't  you  ?"  re- 
turned Mr.  Fuller. 

"  Oh  !  you're  the  gentleman  she  wanted  to  see.  She's  been 
asking  ever  so  often  whether  you  wasn't  come  yet.  She's  quite 
impatient  to  see  you,  poor  lamb  ! " 

While  he  spoke,  Kitely  had  drawn  nearer  to  the  curate, 
regarding  him  with  projecting  and  slightly  flushed  face,  and 
eyes  that  had  even  something  of  eagerness  in  them. 

"  I  would  have  come  earlier,  only  I  thought  it  would  be 
better  not,"  said  Mr.  Fuller. 

Mr.  Kitely  drew  yet  a  step  nearer,  with  the  same  expression 
on  his  face. 

"  You  won't  put  any  nonsense  into  her  head,  will  you,  sir  ?" 
he  said,  almost  pleadingly. 


176  Guild  Court 

"Not  if  I  know  it,"  answered  Mr.  Fuller,  with  a  smile  of 
kind  humor.     "I  would  rather  take  some  out  of  it." 

"For  you  see,"  Kitely  went  on,  "that  child  never  com- 
mitted a  sin  in  her  life.  It's  all  nonsense  ;  and  I  won't  have 
her  talked  to  as  if  she  was  a  little  hell-cat." 

"But  you  see  we  must  go  partly  by  what  she  thinks  herself; 
and  I  suspect  she  won't  say  she  never  did  anything  wrong. 
I  don't  think  I  ever  knew  a  child  that  would.  But, 
after  all  suppose  you  are  right,  and  she  never  did  anything, 
wrong — " 

"  I  don't  exactly  say  that,  you  know,"  interposed  Mr.  Kitely, 
in  a  tone  of  mingled  candor  and  defense.  "I  only  said  she 
hadn't  committed  any  sins. " 

' '  And  where's  the  difference  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Fuller,  quietly. 

"  Oh  !  you  know  quite  well.  Doing  wrong,  you  know — 
why,  we  all  do  wrong  sometimes.  But  to  commit  a  sin,  you 
know — I  suppose  that's  something  serious.  That  comes  in  the 
way  of  the  Ten  Commandments." 

"I  don't  think  your  little  girl  would  know  the  difference." 

"  But  what's  the  use  of  referring  to  her  always  ?  " 

"Just  because  I  think  she's  very  likely  to  know  best.  Chil- 
dren are  wise  in  the  affairs  of  their  own  kingdom." 

"Well,  I  believe  you're  right ;  for  she  is  the  strangest  child 
I  ever  saw.  She  knows  more  than  any  one  would  think  for. 
Walk  this  way,  sir.     You'll  find  her  in  the  back  room." 

"Won't  you  come,  too,  and  see  that  I  don't  put  any  non- 
sense into  her  head  ?  " 

"I  must  mind  the  shop,  sir,"  objected  Kitely,  seeming  a 
little  ashamed  of  what  he  had  said. 

Mr.  Fuller  nodded  content,  and  was  passing  on,  when  he 
bethought  himself,  and  stopped. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Kitely,"  he  said,  "  there  was  just  one  thing  I  was 
going  to  say,  but  omitted.  It  was  only  this  :  that  suppose  you 
were  right  about  your  little  girl,  or  suppose  even  that  she  had 
never  done  anything  wrong  at  all,  she  would  want  God  all  the 
same.     And  we  must  help  each  other  to  find  Him." 

If  Mr.  Kitely  had  any  reply  ready  for  this  remark,  which 
I  doubt,  Mr.  Fuller  did  not  give  him  time-  to  make  it,  for  he 
walked  at  once  into  the  room,  and  found  Mattie  sitting  alone 
in  a  half  twilight,  for  the  day  was  cloudy.  Even  the  birds 
were  oppressed,  for  not  one  of  them  was  singing.  A  thrush 
hopped  drearily  about  under  his  load  of  speckles,  and  a  rose- 
ringed  paroquet,  with  a  very  red  nose,  looked  ashamed  of  the 
quantity  of  port- wine  he  had  drunk.     The  child  was  reading 


Mr.  Fuller.  177 

the  same  little  old  book  mentioned  before.  She  laid  it  down, 
and  rose  from  the  window-sill  to  meet  Mr.  Fuller. 

"Well,  how  do  you  do,  sir  ?"  she  said.  "I  am  glad  you 
are  come." 

Any  other  child  of  her  age  Mr.  Fuller  would  have  kissed, 
'but  there  was  something  about  Mattie  that  made  him  feel  it 
an  unfit  proceeding.  He  shook  hands  with  her  and  offered 
her  a  white  camellia. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Mattie,  and  laid  the  little  transfig- 
uration upon  the  table. 

"Don't  you  like  flowers  ?"  asked  Mr.  Fuller,  somewhat  dis- 
appointed.    "  Isn't  it  beautiful  now  ?  " 

"Well,  where's  the  good  ?"  answered  and  asked  Mattie,  as 
if  she  had  been  a  Scotchwoman.  "It  will  be  ugly  before  to- 
morrow." 

"  Oh,  no ;  not  if  you  put  it  in  water  directly." 

"  Will  it  live  forever,  then  ?  "  asked  Mattie. 

"No,  only  a  few  days." 

"Well,  where's  the  odds,  then  ?  To-morrow  or  next  week 
— where's  the  difference  ?  It  looks  dead  now  when  you  know 
it's  dying." 

"Ah!"  thought  Mr.  Fuller,  "I've  got  something  here 
worth  looking  into."     What  he  said  was,  "You  dear  child  !  " 

"You  don't  know  me  yet,"  returned  Mattie.  "I'm  not 
dear  at  all.  "I'm  cross  and  ill-natured.  And  I  won't  be 
petted." 

"  You  like  the  birds,  though,  don't  you  ?"  said  Mr.  Fuller. 

"  Well,  yes.  Mr.  Kitely  likes  them,  and  I  always  like  what 
he  likes.  But  they  are  not  quite  comfortable,  you  know. 
They  won't  last  forever,  you  know.  One  of  them  is  dead  since 
I  was  taken  ill.     And  father  meant  it  for  Miss  Burton." 

"Do  you  like  Miss  Burton,  then  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  do.  But  she'll  live  forever,  you  know.  I'll  tell 
you  something  else  I  like." 

"  What  is  that,  my  child  ?" 

"  Oh,  I'm  no  such  a  child  !  But  I'll  tell  you  what  I  like. 
There." 

And  she  held  out  the  aged  little  volume,  open  at  the  hymn 
about  blind  Bartimeus. 

"  Will  this  live  forever,  then  ?  "  he  asked,  turning  the  vol- 
ume over  in  his  hand,  so  that  its  withered  condition  suggested 
itself  at  once  to  Mattie. 

"Now  you  puzzle  me,"  answered  Mattie.  "But  let  me 
think.  You  know  it's  not  the  book  I  mean  ;  it's  the  poem. 
12 


178  Guild  Court. 

Now  I  have  it.  If  I  know  that  poem  by  heart,  and  I  live  for- 
ever, then  the  poem  will  live  forever.     There  !  " 

"  Then  the  book's  the  body,  and  the  poem  the  soul,"  said 
Mr.  Fuller. 

"  One  of  the  souls ;  for  some  things  have  many  souls.  I 
have  two,  at  least." 

Mr.  Fuller  felt  instinctively,  with  the  big  forehead  and  the 
tiny  body  of  the  child  before  him,  that  they  were  getting  on 
rather  dangerous  ground.     But  he  must  answer. 

"  Two  souls !  That  must  be  something  like  what  King 
David  felt,  when  he  asked  God  to  join  his  heart  into  one. 
But  do  you  like  this  poem  ?  "  he  hastened  to  add.  "  May  I 
read  it  to  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  please  do.  I  am  never  tired  of  hearing  it.  It 
will  sound  quite  new  if  you  read  it." 

So  Mr.  Fuller  read  slowly — "As  Jesus  went  into  Jericho 
town."  And  from  the  way  Mattie  listened,  he  knew  what  he 
must  bring  her  next — not  a  camellia,  but  a  poem.  Still,  how 
sad  it  was  that  a  little  child  should  not  love  flowers  ! 

"  When  were  you  in  the  country  last,  Miss  Kitely  ?  " 

"  I  never  was  in  the  country  that  I  know  of.  My  name  is 
Mattie." 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  go,  Mattie  ?  " 

"  No  I  shouldn't— not  at  all." 

"Why?" 

"Well,  because — because  it's  not  in  my  way,  you  see." 

"But  surely  you  have  some  reason  for  not  liking  the 
country." 

"  Well,  now,  I  will  tell  you.  The  country,  by  all  I  can  hear, 
is  full  of  things  that  die,  and  I  don't  like  that.  And  I  think 
people  can't  be  nice  that  like  the  country." 

Mr.  Fuller  resolved  in  his  heart  that  he  would  make  Mattie 
like  the  country  before  he  had  done  with  her.  But  he  would 
say  no  more  now,  because  he  was  not  sure  whether  Mattie 
as  yet  regarded  him  with  a  friendly  eye ;  and  he  must  be  a 
friend  before  he  could  speak  about  religion.  He  rose,  there- 
fore, and  held  out  his  hand. 

Mattie  looked  at  him  with  dismay. 

"  But  I  wanted  you  to  tell  me  about  the  man  that  sat  at 
Somebody's  feet  in  his  Sunday  clothes." 

Happily  for  his  further  influence  with,  her,  Mr.  Fuller 
guessed  at  once  whom  she  meant,  and  taking  a  New  Testa- 
ment from  his  pocket,  read  to  her  about  the  demoniac,  who 
sat  at  the  feet  of  Jesus,  clothed,  and  in  his  right  mind.     He 


Mr.  Fuller.  179 

had  not  known  her  long  before  he  discovered  that  all  these 
stories  of  possession  had  an  especial  attraction  for  Mattie — she 
evidently  associated  them  with  her  own  visions  of  Syne  and 
his  men. 

"  Well,  I  was  wrong.  It  wasn't  his  Sunday  clothes,"  she 
said.  "  Or,  perhaps,  it  was,  and  he  had  torn  the  rest  all  to 
pieces." 

"  Yes  ;  I  think  that's  very  likely,"  responded  Mr.  Fuller. 

"  I  know — it  was  Syne  that  told  him,  and  he  did  it.  But 
he  wouldn't  do  it  any  more,  would  he,  after  he  saw  Some- 
body?" 

"  I  don't  think  he  would,"  answered  Mr.  Fuller,  under- 
standing her  just  enough  to  know  the  right  answer  to  make. 
"  But  I  will  come  and  see  you  again  to-morrow,"  he  added, 
"  and  try  whether  I  can't  bring  something  with  me  that  you 
will  like." 

"  Thank  you,"  answered  the  old-fashioned  creature.  "  But 
don't  be  putting  yourself  to  any  expense  about  it,  for  I  am  not 
easy  to  please."  And  she  lifted  her  hand  to  her  head  and 
gave  a  deep  sigh,  as  if  it  was  a  very  sad  fact  indeed.  "  I  wish 
I  was  easier  to  please,"  she  added,  to  herself ;  but  Mr.  Fuller 
heard  her  as  he  left  the  room. 

"  She's  a  very  remarkable  child  that,  Mr.  Kitely — too  much 
so,  I  fear,"  he  said,  reentering  the  shop. 

"I  know  that,"  returned  the  bookseller,  curtly,  almost 
angrily.     "I  wish  she  wasn't." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.     I  only  wanted — " 

"  No  occasion  at  all,"  interrupted  Mr.  Kitely. 

"  I  only  wanted,"  Mr.  Fuller  persisted,  "to  ask  you  whether 
you  do  not  think  she  had  better  go  out  of  town  for  a  while." 

"  I  dare  say.  But  how  am  I  to  send  her  ?  The  child  has 
not  a  relation  but  me — and  an  aunt  that  she  can't  a-bear  ;  and 
that  wouldn't  do — would  it,  sir  ?  She  would  fret  herself  to 
death  without  someone  she  cared  about." 

"  Certainly  it  wouldn't  do.  But  mightn't  Miss — I  forget 
her  name — " 

"Miss  Burton,  I  dare  say  you  mean." 

"  I  mean  Miss  Burton.  Couldn't  she  help  you  ?  Is  she 
any  relation  of  yours  ?  " 

"  None  whatever.  Nor  she's  not  like  it.  I  believe  she's 
a  stray,  myself." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Kitely  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Fuller,  quite 
bewildered  now. 

"Well,  sir,  I  mean  that  she's  a  stray  angel,"  answered  Mr. 


180  Guild  Court. 

Kitely,  smiling;  "for  she  ain't  like  anyone  else  I  know  of 
but  that  child's  mother,  and  she's  gone  back  to  where  she 
came  from — many's  the  long  year." 

"I  don't  wonder  at  your  thinking  that  of  her  if  she's  as 
good  as  she  looks,"  returned  Mr.  Fuller.  And  bidding  the 
bookseller  good-morning,  he  left  the  shop  and  walked  home, 
cogitating  how  the  child  could  be  got  into  the  country. 

Next  morning  he  called — earlier,  and  saw  Lucy  leaving  the 
court  just  as  he  was  going  into  the  shop.  He  turned  and 
spoke  to  her. 

" Fancy  a  child,  Miss  Burton,"  he  said,  "that  does  not 
care  about  flowers — and  her  heart  full  of  religion  too  !  How 
is  she  to  consider  the  lilies  of  the  field  ?  She  knows  only  birds 
in  cages;  she  has  no  idea  of  the  birds  of  the  air.  The  poor 
child  has  to  lift  everything  out  of  that  deep  soul  of  hers,  and 
the  buckets  of  her  brain  can't  stand  such  hard  work." 

' '  I  know,  I  know,"  answered  Lucy.   "  But  what  can  I  do  ?  " 

"Besides,"  Mr.  Fuller  continued,  "what  notion  of  the  sim- 
ple grandeur  of  God  can  she  have  when  she  never  had  more 
than  a  peep  of  the  sky  from  between  these  wretched  houses  ? 
How  can  the  heavens  declare  the  glory  of  God  to  her  ?  You 
don't  suppose  David  understood  astronomy,  and  that  it  was 
from  a  scientific  point  of  view  that  he  spoke,  when  he  said 
that  the  firmament  showed  his  handiwork  ?  That  was  all  he 
could  say  about  it,  for  the  Jewish  nation  was  net  yet  able  to 
produce  a  Buskin.  But  it  was,  nevertheless,  the  spiritual 
power  of  the  sky  upon  his  soul — not  the  stars  in  their  courses, 
but  the  stars  up  there  in  their  reposeful  depth  of  blue,  their 
'shining  nest' — which,  whatever  theory  of  their  construction 
he  might  have,  yet  impressed  him  with  an  awe,  an  infinitude, 
a  shrinking  and  yet  aspiring — made  his  heart  swell  within  him, 
and  sent  him  down  on  his  knees.  This  little  darling  knows 
nothing  of  such  an  experience.  We  must  get  her  into  the 
open.  She  must  love  the  wind  that  bloweth  where  it  listeth, 
and  the  clouds  that  change  and  pass.  She  can't  even  like 
anything  that  does  not  last  forever  ;  and  the  mind  needs  a 
perishing  bread  sometimes  as  well  as  the  body — though  it 
never  perishes  when  once  made  use  of,  as  Mattie  told  me  yes- 
terday. But  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  I  am  preaching  a  sermon,  I 
think.  What  a  thing  it  is  to  have  the  faults  of  a  profession  in 
addition  to  those  of  humanity  !  It  all  comes  to  this — you 
must  get  that  child,  with  her  big  head  and  her  big  conscience, 
out  of  London,  and  give  her  heart  a  chance." 

"Indeed,  I  wish  I  could,"  answered  Lucy.     "I  will  do 


Mr.  Fuller.  181 

what  I  can,  and  let  you  know.  Are  you  going  to  see  her  now, 
Mr.  Fuller?" 

"Yes,  I  am.  I  took  her  a  flower  yesterday,  but  I  have 
brought  her  a  poem  to-day.  I  am  afraid,  however,  that  it  is 
not  quite  the  thing  for  her.  I  thought  I  could  easily  find  her 
one  till  I  began  to  try,  and  then  I  found  it  very  difficult 
indeed." 

They  parted — Lucy  to  Mrs.  Morgenstern's,  Mr.  Fuller  to 
Mattie. 

I  will  give  the  hymn — for  the  sake,  in  part,  of  what  Mattie 
said,  and  then  I  will  close  the  chapter. 

"  Come  unto  me,"  the  Master  says. 
But  how  ?     I  am  not  good  ; 
No  thankful  song  my  heart  will  raise, 
Nor  even  wish  it  could. 

I  am  not  sorry  for  the  past, 

Nor  able  not  to  sin  ; 
The  weary  strife  would  ever  last 

11  once  I  should  begin. 

Hast  thou  no  burden  then  to  bear  ? 

No  action  to  repent  ? 
Is  all  around  so  very  fair  ? 

Is  thy  heart  quite  content  ? 

Hast  thou  no  sickness  in  thy  soul  ? 

No  labor  to  endure  ? 
Then  go  in  peace,  for  thou  art  whole, 

Thou  needest  not  His  cure. 

Ah  !  mock  me  not.     Sometimes  I  sigh  ; 

I  have  a  nameless  grief, 
A  faint,  sad  pain — but  such  that  I 

Can  look  for  no  relief. 

Come  then  to  Him  who  made  thy  heart  ; 

Come  in  thyself  distrest ; 
To  come  to  Jesus  is  thy  part, 

His  part  to  give  thee  rest. 

New  grief,  new  hope  He  will  bestow, 

Thy  grief  and  pain  to  quell  ; 
Into  thy  heart  Himself  will  go, 

And  that  will  make  thee  well. 

When  Mr.  Fuller  had  finished  the  hymn,  he  closed  the  book 
and  looked  toward  Mattie.     She  responded — with  a  sigh — 


182  Guild  Court. 

"Well,  I  think  I  know  what  it  means.  You  see  I  hare 
such  a  big  head,  and  so  many  things  come  and  go  just  as  they 
please,  that  if  it  weren't  for  Somebody  I  don't  know  what  I 
should  do  with  them  all.  But  as  soon  as  I  think  about  Him, 
they  grow  quieter  and  behave  better.  But  I  don't  know  all 
that  it  means.     Will  you  lend  me  the  book,  Mr.  Fuller  ?  " 

All  the  child's  thoughts  took  shapes,  and  so  she  talked  like 
a  lunatic.  Still,  as  all  the  forms  to  which  she  gave  an  ob- 
jective existence  were  the  embodiments  of  spiritual  realities, 
she  could  not  be  said  to  have  yet  passed  the  narrow  line  that 
divides  the  poet  from  the  maniac.  But  it  was  high  time  that 
the  subjects  of  her  thoughts  should  be  supplied  from  without, 
and  that  the  generating  power  should  lie  dormant  for  a  while. 
And  the  opportunity  for  this  arrived  sooner  than  her  friends 
had  expected.  * 


CHAPTER  XXYI. 

THE  NINGPO  IS  LOST. 

Lucy  was  so  full  of  Mattie  and  what  Mr.  Fuller  had  said 
that  she  told  Mrs.  Morgenstern  all  about  it  before  Miriam  had 
her  lesson.  After  the  lesson  was  over,  Mrs.  Morgenstern,  who 
had,  contrary  to  her  custom,  remained  in  the  room  all  the 
time,  said  : 

"  Well,  Lucy,  I  have  been  thinking  about  it,  and  I  think  I 
have  arranged  it  all  very  nicely.  It's  clear  to  me  that  the 
child  will  go  out  of  her  mind  if  she  goes  on  as  she's  doing. 
Now,  I  don't  think  Miriam  has  been  quite  so  well  as  usual, 
and  she  has  not  been  out  of  London  since  last  August. 
Couldn't  you  take  her  down  to  St.  Leonard's — or  I  dare  say 
you  would  like  Hastings  better  ?  You  can  go  on  with  your 
lessons  there  all  the  same,  and  take  little  Mattie  with  you." 

"But  what  will  become  of  my  grandmother  ?  "  said  Lucy. 

"  She  can  go  with  you,  can't  she  ?  I  could  ask  her  to  go 
and  take  care  of  you.  It  would  be  much  better  for  you  to 
have  her,  and  it  makes  very  little  difference  to  me,  you  know." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  returned  Lucy,  "but  I  fear  my 
grandmother  will  not  consent  to  it.  I  will  try  her,  however, 
and  see  what  can  be  done.     Thank  you  a  thousand  times,  dear 


TJie  Ningpo  is  Lost.  183 

Mrs.  Morgenstern.  Wouldn't  you  like  to  go  to  Hastings, 
Miriam  ?  " 

Miriam  was  delighted  at  the  thought  of  it,  and  Lucy  was 
not  without  hopes  that  if  her  grandmother  would  not  consent 
to  go  herself,  she  would  at  least  wish  her  to  go.  Leaving 
Mattie  out  of  view,  she  would  be  glad  to  be  away  from  Thomas 
for  a  while,  for,  until  he  had  done  as  he  ought,  she  could  not 
feel  happy  in  his  presence  ;  and  she  made  up  her  mind  that 
she  would  write  to  him  very  plainly  when  she  was  away — per- 
haps tell  him  positively  that  if  he  would  not  end  it,  she  must. 
I  say  perhaps,  for  ever  as  she  approached  the  resolution,  the 
idea  of  the  poor  lad's  helpless  desertion  arose  before  her,  and 
she  recoiled  from  abandoning  him.  Nothing  more  could  be 
determined,  however,  until  she  saw  her  grandmother. 

But  as  she  was  going  out  she  met  Mr.  Sargent  in  the  hall. 
He  had  come  to  see  her. 

This  very  morning  the  last  breath  of  the  crew  and  passen- 
gers of  the  Ningpo  had  bubbled  up  in  the  newspapers  ;  and  all 
the  world  who  cared  to  know  it  knew  the  fact,  that  the  vessel 
had  been  dashed  to  pieces  upon  a  rock  of  the  Cape  Verde  Isl- 
ands ;  all  hands  and  passengers  supposed  to  be  lost.  This  the 
underwriters  knew  but  a  few  hours  before.  Now  it  was  known 
to  Mr.  Stopper  and  Mr.  Worboise,  both  of  whom  it  concerned 
even  more  than  the  underwriters.  Mr.  Stopper's  first  feeling 
was  one  of  dismay,  for  the  articles  of  partnership  had  not  been 
completed  before  Mr.  Boxall  sailed.  Still,  as  he  was  the  only 
person  who  understood  the  business,  he  trusted  in  any  case  to 
make  his  position  good,  especially  if  he  was  right  in  imagining 
that  old  Mrs.  Boxall  must  now  be  heir-at-law — a  supposition 
which  he  scarcely  allowed  himself  to  doubt.  Here,  however, 
occurred  the  thought  of  Thomas.  He  had  influence  there, 
and  that  influence  would  be  against  him,  for  had  he  not  in- 
insulted  him  ?  This  he  could  not  help  yet.  He  would  wait 
for  what  might  turn  up. 

What  Mr.  Worboise's  feelings  were  when  first  he  read  the 
paragraph  in  the  paper  I  do  not  know,  nor  whether  he  had  not 
an  emotion  of  justice,  and  an  inclination  to  share  the  property 
with  Mrs.  Boxall.  But  I  doubt  whether  he  very  clearly  rec- 
ognized the  existence  of  his  friend's  mother.  In  his  mind, 
probably,  her  subjective  being  was  thinned  by  age,  little  re- 
gard, and  dependence,  into  a  thing  of  no  account — a  shadow 
of  the  non-Elysian  sort,  living  only  in  the  waste  places  of 
human  disregard.  He  certainly  knew  nothing  of  her  right  to 
any  property  in  the  possession  of  her  son.     Of  one  of  his  feel- 


184  Guild  Court. 

ings  only  am  I  sure  :  lie  became  more  ambitious  for  his  son, 
in  whom  lie  bad  a  considerable  amount  of  the  pride  of  pater- 
nity. 

Mrs.  Boxall  was  the  last  to  hear  anything  of  the  matter. 
She  did  not  read  the  newspapers,  and,  accustomed  to  have 
sons  at  sea,  had  not  even  begun  to  look  for  news  of  the  Ningpo. 

"  Ah,  Miss  Burton/'  said  Mr.  Sargent,  ' '  I  am  just  in  time. 
I  thought  perhaps  you  would  not  be  gone  yet.  Will  you  come 
into  the  garden  with  me  for  a  few  minutes  ?  I  won't  keep 
you  long." 

Lucy  hesitated.  Mr.  Sargent  had  of  late,  on  several  occa- 
sions, been  more  confidential  in  his  manner  than  was  quite 
pleasant  to  her,  because,  with  the  keenest  dislike  to  false 
appearances,  she  yet  could  not  take  his  attentions  for  granted, 
and  tell  him  she  was  engaged  to  Thomas.  He  saw  her  hesita- 
tion, and  hastened  to  remove  it. 

"  I  only  want  to  ask  you  about  a  matter  of  business,"  he 
said.     "  I  assure  you  I  won't  detain  you." 

Mr.  Sargent  knew  something  of  Mr.  Wither,  who  had  very 
"good  connections,"  and  was  indeed  a  favorite  in  several  pro- 
fessional circles  ;  and  from  him  he  had  learned  all  about 
Lucy's  relations,  without  even  alluding  to  Lucy  herself,  and 
that  her  uncle  and  whole  family  had  sailed  in  the  Ningpo. 
Anxious  to  do  what  he  could  for  her,  and  fearful  lest,  in  their 
unprotected  condition,  some  advantage  should  be  taken  of  the 
two  women,  he  had  made  haste  to  offer  his  services  to  Lucy, 
not  without  a  vague  feeling  that  he  ran  great  risk  of  putting 
himself  in  the  false  position  of  a  fortune-hunter  by  doing  so, 
and  heartily  abusing  himself  for  not  having  made  more  definite 
advances  before  there  was  any  danger  of  her  becoming  an  heir- 
ess ;  for  although  a  fortune  was  a  most  desirable  tiling  in  Mr. 
Sargent's  position,  especially  if  he  wished  to  marry,  he  was 
above  marrying  for  money  alone,  and,  in  the  case  of  Lucy,  with 
whom  he  had  fallen  in  love — just  within  his  depth,  it  must  be 
confessed — while  she  was  as  poor  as  himself,  he  was  especially 
jealous  of  being  unjustly  supposed  to  be  in  pursuit  of  her  pros- 
pects. Possibly  the  consciousness  of  what  a  help  the  fortune 
would  be  to  him  made  him  even  more  sensitive  than  he  would 
otherwise  have  been.  Still  he  would  not  omit  the  opportunity 
of  being  useful  to  the  girl,  trusting  that  his  honesty  would, 
despite  of  appearances,  manifest  itself  sufficiently  to  be  believed 
in  by  so  honest  a  nature  as  Lucy  Burton. 

"Have  you  heard  the  sad  news  ?"  he  said,  as  soon  as  they 
were  in  the  garden. 


The  Ningpo  is  Lost.  185 

"  No,"  answered  Lucy,  without  much  concern  ;  for  she  did 
not  expect  to  hear  anything  about  Thomas. 

"I  thought  not.     It  is  very  sad.     The  Ningpo  is  lost." 

Lucy  was  perplexed.  She  knew  the  name  of  her  uncle's 
vessel ;  hut  for  a  moment  she  did  not  associate  the  thing.  In 
a  moment,  however,  something  of  the  horror  of  the  fact 
reached  her.  She  did  not  cry,  for  her  affections  had  no  great 
part  in  anyone  on  board  of  the  vessel,  but  she  turned  very 
pale.  And  not  a  thought  of  the  possible  interest  she  might 
have  in  the  matter  crossed  her  mind.  She  had  never  associ- 
ated good  to  herself  with  her  uncle  or  any  of  his  family. 

"How  dreadful!"  she  murmured.  "My  poor  cousins! 
What  they  must  all  have  gone  through  !  Are  they  come 
home  ?  " 

"They  are  gone  home,"  said  Mr.  Sargent,  significantly. 
"There  can  be  but  little  doubt  of  that,  I  fear." 

"You  don't  mean  they're  drowned  ?"  she  said,  turning  her 
white  face  on  him,  and  opening  her  eyes  wide. 

"It  is, not  absolutely  certain  ;  but  there  can  be  little  doubt 
about  it." 

He  did  not  show  her  the  paragraph  in  the  Times,  though 
the  paper  was  in  his  pocket :  the  particulars  were  too  dread- 
ful. 

"  Are  there  any  other  relations  but  your  grandmother  and 
yourself  ?  "  he  asked,  for  Lucy  remained  silent. 

"I  don't  know  of  any,"  she  answered. 

"  Then  you  must  come  in  for  the  property." 

"  Oh,  no.  He  would  never  leave  it  to  us.  He  didn't  like 
me,  for  one  thing.  But  that  was  my  fault,  perhaps.  He  was 
not  over- kind  to  my  mother,  and  so  I  never  liked  him." 

And  here  at  length  she  burst  into  tears.  She  wept  very 
quietly,  however,  and  Mr.  Sargent  went  on. 

' '  But  you  must  be  his  heirs-at-law.  Will  you  allow  me  to 
make  inquiry — to  do  anything  that  may  be  necessary,  for  you  ? 
Don't  misunderstand  me,"  he  added,  pleadingly.  "  It  is  only 
as  a  friend — what  I  have  been  for  a  long  time  now,  Lucy." 

Lucy  scarcely  hesitated  before  she  answered,  with  a  restraint 
that  appeared  iike  coldness  : 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Sargent.  The  business  cannot  in  any 
case  be  mine.  It  is  my  grandmother's,  and  I  can,  and  will,  take 
no  hand  in  it." 

"Will  you  say  to  your  grandmother  that  I  am  at  her  ser- 
vice ?  " 

"  If  it  were  a  business  matter,  there  is  no  one  I  would  more 


186  Guild  Court 

willingly — ask  to  help  us  ;  but  as  you  say  it  is  a  matter  of 
friendship,  I  must  refuse  your  kindness." 

Mr.  Sargent  was  vexed  with  himself,  and  disappointed  with 
her.  He  supposed  that  she  misinterpreted  his  motives.  Be- 
tween the  two,  he  was  driven  to  a  sudden,  unresolved  action  of 
appeal. 

"Miss  Burton,"  he  said,  "for  God's  sake,  do  not  misun- 
derstand me,  and  attribute  to  mercenary  motives  the  offer  I 
make  only  in  the  confidence  that  you  will  not  do  me  such  an 
injustice." 

Lucy  was  greatly  distressed.  Her  color  went  and  came  for 
a  few  moments,  and  then  she  spoke. 

"Mr.  Sargent,  I  am  just  as  anxious  that  you  should  under- 
stand me  ;  but  I  am  in  a  great  difficulty  and  have  to  throw 
myself  on  your  generosity." 

She  paused  again,  astonished  to  find  herself  making  a 
speech.     But  she  did  not  pause  long. 

"  I  refuse  your  kindness,"  she  said,  "only  because  I  am  not 
free  to  lay  myself  under  such  obligation  to  you.  Do  not  ask 
me  to  say  more,"  she  added,  finding  that  he  made  no  reply. 

But  if  she  had  looked  in  his  face,  she  would  have  seen  that 
he  understood  her  perfectly.  Honest  disappointment  and 
manly  suffering  were  visible  enough  on  his  countenance.  But 
he  did  not  grow  ashy  pale,  as  some  lovers  would  at  such  an 
utterance.  He  would  never  have  made,  under  any  circum- 
stances, a  passionate  lover,  though  an  honest  and  true  one  ;  for 
he  was  one  of  those  balanced  natures  which  are  never  all  in  one 
thing  at  once.  Hence  the  very  moment  he  received  a  shock, 
was  the  moment  in  which  he  began  to  struggle  for  victory. 
Something  called  to  him,  as  Una  to  the  Red-Cross  Knight 
when  face  to  face  with  the  serpent  Error  : 

"Strangle  her,  else  she  sure  will  strangle  thee." 

Before  Lucy's  eyes  and  his  met,  he  had  mastered  his  counten- 
ance at  last. 

"  I  understand  you,  Miss  Burton,"  he  said,  in  a  calm  voice, 
which  only  trembled  a  little — and  it  was  then  that  Lucy  ven- 
tured to  look  at  him — "  and  I  thank  you.  Please  to  remember 
that  if  ever  you  need  a  friend,  I  am  at  your  service." 

Without  another  word,  he  lifted  his  hat  and  wBnt  away. 

Lucy  hastened  home  full  of  distress  at  the  thought  of  her 
grandmother's  grief,  and  thinking  all  the  way  how  she  could 


Of  Useful  Odds  and  Ends.  187 

convey  the  news  with  least  of  a  shock ;  but  when  she  en- 
tered the  room,  she  found  her  already  in  tears,  and  Mr.  Stop- 
per seated  by  her  side  comforting  her  with  commonplaces. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

OF   USEFUL   ODDS   AND   ENDS. 

During  all  this  time,  when  his  visits  to  Lucy  were  so  much 
interrupted  by  her  attendance  upon  Mattie,  Thomas  had  not 
been  doing  well.  In  fact,  he  had  been  doing  gradually  worse. 
His  mother  had,  of  course,  been  at  home  for  a  long  time  now, 
and  Mr.  Simon's  visits  had  been  resumed.  But  neither  of 
these  circumstances  tended  to  draw  him  homeward. 

Mrs.  Worboise's  health  was  so  much  improved  by  her  so- 
journ at  Folkestone,  that  she  now  meditated  more  energetic 
measures  for  the  conversion  of  her  son.  What  these  measures 
should  be,  however,  she  could  not  for  some  time  determine.  At 
length  she  resolved  that,  as  he  had  been  a  good  scholar  when  at 
school — proved  in  her  eyes  by  his  having  brought  borne  prizes 
every  year — she  would  ask  him  to  bring  his  Greek  Testament 
to  her  room,  and  help  her  to  read  through  St.  Paul's  Epistle 
to  the  Romans  with  the  fresh  light  which  his  scholarship  would 
cast  upon  the  page.  It  was  not  that  she  was  in  the  least  diffi- 
culty about  the  Apostle's  meaning.  She  knew  that'  as  well  at 
least  as  the  Apostle  himself  ;  but  she  would  invent  an  inno- 
cent trap  to  catch  a  soul  with,  and,  if  so  it  might  be,  put  it 
in  a  safe  cage,  whose  strong  wires  of  exclusion  should  be  wad- 
ded with  the  pleasant  cotton  of  safety.  Alas  for  St.  Paul,  his 
mighty  soul,  and  his  laboring  speech,  in  the  hands  of  two 
such  !  The  very  idea  of  such  to  read  him,  might  have  scared 
him  from  his  epistle — if  such  readers  there  could  have  been  in  a 
time  when  the  wild  beasts  of  the  amphitheatre  kept  the  Chris- 
tianity pure. 

"Thomas,  "  she  said,  one  evening,  "I  want  you  to  bring 
your  Greek  Testament,  and  help  me  out  with  something." 

"0,  mother,  I  can't.  I  have  forgotten  all  about  Greek. 
What  is  it  you  want  to  know  ?  " 

"  I  want  you  to  read  the  Romans  with  me." 


188  Guild  Court 

"Oh!  really,  mother,  I  can't.  It's  such  bad  Greek,  you 
know." 

"  Thomas  ! "  said  his  mother,  sepulchrally,  as  if  his  hasty 
assertion  with  regard  to  St.  Paul's  scholarship  had  been  a  sin 
against  the  truth  St.  Paul  spoke. 

"  Well,  really,  mother,  you  must  excuse  me.  I  can't.  Why 
don't  you  ask  Mr.  Simon  ?     He's  an  Oxford  man." 

To  this  Mrs.  Worboise  had  no  answer  immediately  at  hand. 
From  the  way  in  which  Thomas  met  her  request  my  reader 
will  see  that  he  was  breaking  loose  from  her  authority — 
whether  for  the  better  or  the  worse  does  not  at  this  point  seem 
doubtful,  and  yet  perhaps  it  was  doubtful.  Still  he  was  not 
prepared  to  brave  her  and  his  father  with  a  confession,  for 
such  it  appeared  to  him  to  be,  of  his  attachment  to  Lucy. 

Since  he  could  see  so  little  of  her,  he  had  spent  almost  all 
the  time  that  used  to  be  devoted  to  her  with  Molken.  In  conse- 
quence, he  seldom  reached  home  in  anything  like  what  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  consider  decent  time.  When  his  mother 
spoke  to  him  on  the  subject  he  shoved  it  aside  with  an  "Ah ! 
you  were  in  bed,  mother, "prefacing  some  story,  part  true,  part 
false,  arranged  for  the  occasion.  So  long  as  his  father  took 
no  notice  of  the  matter  he  did  not  much  mind.  He  was  afraid 
of  him  still ;  but  so  long  as  he  was  out  of  bed  early  enough  in 
the  morning,  his  father  did  not  much  care  at  what  hour  he 
went  to  it :  he  had  had  his  own  wild  oats  to  sow  in  his  time. 
The  purity  of  his  boy's  mind  and  body  did  not  trouble  him 
much,  provided  that,  when  he  came  to  take  his  position  in  the 
machine  of  things,  he  turned  out  a  steady,  respectable  pinion, 
whose  cogs  did  not  miss,  but  held — the  one  till  the  other 
caught.  He  had,  however,  grown  ambitious  for  him  within 
the  last  few  days — more  of  which  by  and  by. 

In  the  vacancy  of  mind  occasioned  by  the  loss  of  his  visits 
to  Lucy — for  he  had  never  entered  heartily  into  any  healthy 
pursuits  in  literature,  art,  or  even  amusement — Thomas  had, 
as  it  were,  gradually  sauntered  more  and  more  into  the  power 
of  Mr.  Molken  ;  and  although  he  had  vowed  to  himself,  after 
his  first  experience,  that  he  would  never  play  again,  himself 
not  being  to  himself  a  very  awe-inspiring  authority,  he  had 
easily  broken  that  vow.  It  was  not  that  he  had  any  very 
strong  inclination  to  play — the  demon  of  play  had  not  quite 
entered  into  him  :  it  was  only  that  whatever  lord  asserted 
dominion  over  Thomas,  to  him  Thomas  was  ready  to  yield 
that  which  he  claimed.  Molken  said,  "  Come  along,"  and 
Thomas  went  along.    Nor  was  it  always  to  the  gambling-house 


Of  Useful  Odds  and  Ends.  189 

that  he  followed  Molken  ;  but  although  there  was  one  most 
degrading  species  of  vice  from  which  his  love  to  Lucy — for  he 
loved  Lucy  with  a  real  though  not  great  love — did  preserve 
him,  there  were  several  places  to  which  his  friend  took  him 
from  which  he  could  scarcely  emerge  as  pure  as  he  entered 
them.  I  suspect — thanks  to  what  influence  Lucy  had  with 
him,  to  what  conscience  he  had  left  in  him,  to  what  good  his 
mother  and  Mr.  Simon  had  taught  him,  in  a  word,  to  the  care 
of  God  over  him — Mr.  Molken  found  him  rather  harder  to 
corrupt  than,  from  his  shilly-shally  ways,  he  had  expected. 
Above  all,  the  love  of  woman,  next  to  the  love  of  G-od,  is  the 
power  of  God  to  a  young  man's  salvation  ;  for  all  is  of  God, 
everything,  from  first  to  last — nature,  providence,  and  grace — 
it  is  all  of  our  Father  in  Heaven  ;  and  what  God  hath  joined 
let  not  man  put  asunder. 

His  gambling  was  a  very  trifle  as  far  as  money  went :  an 
affair  of  all  but  life  and  death  as  far  as  principle  was  concerned. 
There  is  nothing  like  the  amount  of  in-door  gambling  that 
there  used  to  be  ;  but  there  is  no  great  improvement  in  taking 
it  to  the  downs  and  the  open  air,  and  making  it  librate  on  the 
muscles  of  horses  instead  of  on  the  spinning  power  of  a  top  or 
the  turning  up  of  cards.  And  whoever  gambles,  whether  at 
rouge-et-noir  or  at  Fly-away  versus  Staywell,  will  find  that  the 
laws  of  gambling  are,  like  those  of  the  universe,  unalterable. 
The  laws  of  gambling  are  discontent,  confusion,  and  loss  upon 
everyone  who  seeks  to  make  money  without  giving  money's 
worth.  It  will  matter  little  to  the  grumbler  whether  the  retri- 
bution comes  in  this  world,  he  thinking,  like  Macbeth,  to 
"skip  the  life  to  come,"  or  in  the  next.  He  will  find  that 
one  day  is  with  the  Lord,  as  a  thousand  years,  and  a  thousand 
years  as  one  day. 

But  for  Thomas,  the  worst  thing  in  the  gambling,  besides 
the  bad  company  it  led  him  into,  was  that  the  whole  affair  fell 
in  so  with  his  natural  weakness.  Gambling  is  the  employment 
fitted  for  the  man  without  principles  and  without  will,  for  his 
whole  being  is  but,  as  far  as  he  is  concerned,  the  roulette-ball 
of  chance.  The  wise,  on  the  contrary,  do  not  believe  in  For- 
tune, yield  nothing  to  her  sway,  go  on  their  own  fixed  path 
regardless  "  of  her  that  turneth  as  a  ball,"  as  Chaucer  says. 
They  at  least  will  be  steady,  come  to  them  what  may.  Thomas 
got  gradually  weaker  and  weaker,  and,  had  it  not  been  for 
Lucy,  would  soon  have  fallen  utterly.  But  she,  like  the  lady 
of  an  absent  lord,  still  kept  one  fortress  for  him  in  a  yielded 
and  devastated  country. 


190       .  Guild  Court. 

There  was  no  newspaper  taken  in  at  Mr.  "Worboise's,  for  he 
always  left  home  for  his  office  as  soon  as  possible.  So,  when 
Thomas  reached  the  counting-house,  he  had  heard  nothing  of 
the  sad  news  about  his  late  master  and  his  family.  But  the 
moment  he  entered  the  place  he  felt  that  the  atmosphere  was 
clouded.  Mr.  Wither,  whose  face  was  pale  as  death,  rose  from 
the  desk  where  he  had  been  sitting,  caught  up  his  hat,  and 
went  out.  Thomas  could  not  help  suspecting  that  his  entrance 
was  the  cause  of  Mr.  Wither's  departure,  and  his  thoughts 
went  back  to  last  night,  and  he  wondered  whether  his  fellow- 
clerks  would  cut  him  because  of  the  company  he  had  been  in. 
His  conscience  could  be  more  easily  pricked  by  the  apprehen- 
sion of  oyert  disapprobation  than  by  any  other  goad.  None 
of  them  took  any  particular  notice  of  him  ;  only  a  gloom  as  of 
a  funeral  hung  about  all  their  faces,  and  radiated  from  them 
so  as  to  make  the  whole  place  look  sepulchral.  Mr.  Stopper 
was  sitting  within  the  glass  partition,  whence  he  called  for 
Mr.  "VVorboise,  who  obeyed  with  a  bad  grace,  as  anticipating 
something  disagreeable. 

"There! "said  Mr.  Stopper,  handing  him  the  newspaper, 
and  watching  him  as  he  read. 

Thomas  read,  returned  the  paper,  murmured  something,  and 
went  back  with  scared  face  to  the  outer  room.  There  a  con- 
versation arose  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  it  had  been  in  the  presence 
of  the  dead.  Various  questions  were  asked  and  conjectures 
hazarded,  but  nobody  knew  anything.  Thomas's  place  was 
opposite  the  glass,  and  before  he  had  been  long  seated  he  saw 
Mr.  Stopper  take  the  key  of  the  door  of  communication  from 
a  drawer,  unlock  the  door,  and  with  the  Times  in  his  hand 
walk  into  Mrs.  Boxall's  house,  closing  the  door  behind  him. 
This  movement  was  easy  to  understand,  and  set  Thomas 
thinking.  Then  first  the  thought  struck  him  that  Lucy  and 
her  grandmother  would  come  in  for  all  the  property.  This 
sent  a  glow  of  pleasure  through  him,  and  he  had  enough  ado 
to  keep  the  funeral  look  which  belonged  to  the  occasion. 
Now  he  need  not  fear  to  tell  his  father  the  fact  of  his  engage- 
ment— indeed,  he  might  delay  the  news  as  long  as  he  liked, 
sure  that  it  would  be  welcome  when  it  came.  If  his  father 
were  pleased,  he  did  not  care  so  much  for  his  mother.  But 
had  he  known  how  much  she  loved  him,  he  could  not  ha^e 
got  so  far  away  from  her  as  he  was  now.  If,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  had  fallen  in  with  her  way  of  tbings,-she  would  have 
poured  out  upon  him  so  much  repressed  affection  that  he 
would  have  known  it.     But  till  he  saw  as  she  saw,  felt  as  she 


Of  Useful  Odds  and  Ends.  191 

felt,  and  could  talk  as  she  talked,  her  motherhood  saw  an 
impervious  barrier  between  her  and  him — a  barrier  she  labored 
hard  to  remove,  but  with  tools  that  could  make  no  passage 
through  an  ever-closing  mist. 

;  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  if  he  had  told  all  now,  the 
knowledge  of  his  relation  to  Lucy  would  have  been  welcomed 
by  his  father,  and  would  have  set  everything  right.  I  cannot 
but  believe  that  Mr.  Worboise's  mind  was  troubled  about  the 
property.  With  perfect  law  on  his  side,  there  was  yet  that 
against  him  which  all  his  worldliness  did  not  quite  enable  him 
to  meet  with  coolness.  But  the  longer  the  idea  of  the  prop- 
erty rested  upon  his  mind,  the  more,  as  L  it  had  been  the  red- 
hot  coin  of  the  devil's  gift,  it  burned  and  burrowed  out  a  nest 
for  itself,  till  it  lay  there  stone-cold  and  immovably  fixed,  and 
not  to  be  got  rid  of.  Before  many  weeks  had  passed  he  not 
only  knew  that  it  was  his  by  law,  but  felt  that  it  was  his  by 
right — his  own  by  right  of  possession,  and  the  clinging  of  his 
heart-strings  around  it — his  own  because  it  was  so  good  that 
he  could  not  part  with  it.  Still  it  was  possible  that  something 
adverse  might  turn  up,  and  there  was  no  good  in  incurring 
odium  until  he  was  absolutely  sure  that  the  fortune  as  well  as 
the  odium  would  be  his ;  therefore  he  was  in  no  haste  to  pro- 
pound the  will. 

But,  as  I  have  said,  he  began  to  be  more  ambitious  for  his 
son,  and  the  more  he  thought  about  the  property,  the  more 
he  desired  to  increase  it  by  the  advantageous  alliance  which  he 
had  now  no  doubt  he  could  command.  This  persuasion  was 
increased  by  the  satisfaction  which  his  son's  handsome  person 
and  pleasing  manners  afforded  him  ;  and  a  confidence  of  man- 
ner which  had  of  late  shown  itself,  chiefly,  it  mUst  be  con- 
fessed, from  the  experience  of  the  world  he  had  had  in  the 
company  he  of  late  frequented,  had  raised  in  his  father's  mind 
a  certain  regard  for  him  which  he  had  not  felt  before.  There- 
fore he  began  to  look  about  him  and  speculate.  He  had  not 
the  slightest  suspicion  of  Thomas  being  in  love  ;  and,  indeed, 
there  was  nothing  in  his  conduct  or  appearance  that  could 
have  aroused  such  a  suspicion  in  his  mind.  Mr.  Worboise 
believed,  on  the  contrary,  that  his  son  was  leading  a  rather 
wild  life. 

It  may  seem  strange  that  Thomas  should  not  by  this  time 
have  sunk  far  deeper  into  the  abyss  of  misery  ;  but  Molken 
had  been  careful  in  not  trying  to  hook  him  while  he  was  only 
nibbling ;  and,  besides,  until  he  happened  to  be  able  to  lose 
something  worth  winning,  he  rather  avoided  running  him  into 


192  Guild  Court 

any  scrape  that  might  disgust  him  without  bringing  any  con- 
siderable advantage  to  himself. 

There  was  one  adverse  intelligence,  of  whom  Mr.  Worboise 
knew  nothing,  and  who  knew  nothing  of  Mr.  Worboise,  ready 
to  pounce  upon  him  the  moment  he  showed  his  game.  This 
was  Mr.  Sargent.  Smarting,  not  under  Lucy's  refusal  so 
much  as  from  the  lingering  suspicion  that  she  had  altogether 
misinterpreted  his  motives,  he  watched  for  an  opportunity  of 
proving  his  disinterestedness  ;  this  was  his  only  hope  ;  for  he 
saw  that  Lucy  was  lost  to  him.  He  well  knew  that  in  the 
position  of  her  and  her  grandmother,  it  would  not  be  surpris- 
ing if  something  with  a  forked  tongue  or  a  cloven  foot  should 
put  its  head  out  of  a  hole  before  very  long,  and  begin  to  creep 
toward  them  ;  and  therefore,  as  I  say,  he  kept  an  indefinite 
but  wide  watch,  in  the  hope  which  I  have  mentioned.  He 
had  no  great  difficulty  in  discovering  that  Mr.  Worboise  had 
been  Mr.  Boxall's  man  of  business,  but  he  had  no  right  to 
communicate  with  him  on  the  subject.  This  indeed  Mr. 
Stopper,  who  had  taken  the  place  of  adviser  in  general  to  Mrs. 
Boxall,  had  already  done,  asking  him  whether  Mr.  Boxall  had 
left  no  will,  to  which  he  had  received  a  reply  only  to  the  effect 
that  it  was  early  days,  that  there  was  no  proof  of  his  death, 
and  that  he  was  prepared  to  give  what  evidence  he  possessed 
at  the  proper  time — an  answer  Mrs.  Boxall  naturally  enough, 
with  her  fiery  disposition,  considered  less  than  courteous.  Of 
this  Mr.  Sargent  of  course  was  not  aware,  but,  as  the  only 
thing  he  could  do  at  present,  he  entered  a  caveat  in  the  Court 
of  Probate. 

Mr.  Stopper  did  his  best  for  the  business  in  the  hope  of  one 
day  having  not  only  the  entire  management  as  now,  but  an 
unquestionable  as  unquestioned  right  to  the  same.  If  he  ever 
thought  of  anything  further  since  he  had  now  a  free  entrance 
to  Mrs.  Boxall's  region,  he  could  not  think  an  inch  in  that 
direction  without  encountering  the  idea  of  Thomas.  - 

It  Avas  very  disagreeable  to  Thomas  that  Mr.  Stopper,  whom 
he  detested,  should  have  this  free  admission  to  what  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  regard  as  his  peculium.  He  felt  as  if  the 
place  were  defiled  by  his  presence,  and  to  sit  as  he  had  some- 
times to  sit,  knowing  that  Mr.  Stopper  was  overhead,  was 
absolutely  hateful.  But,  as  I  shall  have  to  set  forth  in  the 
next  chapter,  Lucy  was  not  at  home  ;  and  that  mitigated  the 
matter  very  considerably.  For  the  rest,  Mr.  Stopper  was  on 
the  whole  more  civil  to  Thomas  than  he  had  hitherto  been, 
and  appeared  even  to  put  a  little  more  confidence  in  him  than 


Mattie  in  tlie  Country.  193 

formerly.  The  fact  was,  that  the  insecurity  of  his  position 
made  him  conscious  of  vulnerability,  and  he  wished,  to  be 
friendly  on  all  sides,  with  a  vague  general  feeling  of  strength- 
ening his  outworks. 

Mr.  Wither  never  opened  his  mouth  to  Thomas  upon  any 
occasion  or  necessity,  and  from  several  symptoms  it  appeared 
that  his  grief,  or  rather  perhaps  the  antidotes  to  it,  were  drag- 
ging him  down  hill. 

Amy  Worboise  was  not  at  home.  The  mother  had  seen 
symptoms  ;  and  much  as  she  valued  Mr.  Simon's  ghostly  min- 
istrations, the  old  Adam  in  her  rebelled  too  strongly  against 
having  a  curate  for  her  son-in-law.  So  Amy  disappeared  for 
a  season,  upon  a  convenient  invitation.  But  if  she  had  been 
at  home,  she  could  have  influenced  events  in  nothing  ;  for,  as 
often  happens  in  families,  there  was  no  real  communication 
between  brother  and  sister. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

MATTIE    IK    THE    COUNTEY. 

I  isrow  return  to  resume  the  regular  thread  of  my  story. 

I  do  not  know  if  my  reader  is  half  as  much  interested  in 
Mattie  as  I  am.  I  doubt  it  very  much.  He  will,  most  prob- 
ably, like  Poppie  better.  But  big-headed,  strange,  and  con- 
ceited as  Mattie  was,  she  Avas  altogether  a  higher  being  than 
Poppie.  She  thought ;  Poppie  only  received  impressions.  If 
she  had  more  serious  faults  than  Poppie,  they  were  faults  that 
belonged  to  a  more  advanced  stage  of  growth ;  diseased,  my 
reader  may  say,  but  diseased  with  a  disease  that  fell  in  with, 
almost  belonged  to,  the  untimely  development.  All  Poppie's 
thoughts,  to  speak  roughly,  came  from  without ;  all  Mattie's 
from  within.  To  complete  Mattie,  she  had  to  go  back  a  little, 
and  learn  to  receive  impressions  too  ;  to  complete  Poppie,  she 
had  to  work  upon  the  impressions  she  received,  and,  so  to 
speak,  generate  thoughts  of  her  own.  Mattie  led  the  life  of  a 
human  being ;  Poppie  of  a  human  animal.  Mattie  lived ; 
Poppie  was  there.  Poppie  was  the  type  of  most  people ;  Mat- 
tie  of  the  elect. 

Lucy  did  not  intend,  in  the  sad  circumstances  in  which  she 
13 


194  Guild  Court. 

now  was,  to  say  a  word  to  her  grandmother  about  Mrs.  Mor- 
genstern's  proposal.  But  it  was  brought  about  very  naturally. 
As  she  entered  the  court  she  met  Mattie.  The  child  had  been 
once  more  to  visit  Mr.  Spelt,  but  had  found  the  little  nest  so 
oppressive  that  she  had  begged  to  be  put  down  again,  that  she 
might  go  to  her  own  room.  Mr.  Spelt  was  leaning  over  his 
door  and  his  crossed  legs,  for  he  could  not  stand  up,  looking 
'  anxiously  after  her ;  and  the  child's  face  was  so  pale  and  sad, 
and  she  held  her  little  hand  so  pitifully  to  her  big  head,  that 
Lucy  could  not  help  feeling  that  the  first  necessity  among  her 
duties  was  to  get  Mattie  away. 

After  the  fresh  burst  of  her  grandmother's  grief  at  sight  of 
her  was  over,  after  Mr.  Stopper  had  gone  back  to  the  counting- 
house,  and  she  had  fallen  into  a  silent  rocking  to  and  fro, 
Lucy  ventured  to  speak. 

"They're  gone  home,  dear  grannie,"  she  said. 

"And  I  shan't  stay  long  behind  them,  my  dear,"  grannie 
moaned. 

"That's  some  comfort,  isn't  it,  grannie  ?"  said  Lucy,  for 
her  own  heart  was  heavy,  not  for  the  dead,  but  for  the  living ; 
heavy  for  her  own  troubles,  heavy  for  Thomas,  about  whom 
she  felt  very  despondent,  almost  despairing. 

"  Ah  !  you  young  people  would  be  glad  enough  to  have  the 
old  ones  out  of  the  way,"  returned  Mrs.  Boxall,  in  the  petu- 
lance of  grief.  "  Have  patience,  Lucy,  have  patience,  child ; 
it  won't  be  long,  and  then  you  can  do  as  you  like." 

"Oh,  grannie,  grannie  !"  cried  Lucy,  bursting  into  tears. 
"I  do  everything  I  like  now.  I  only  wanted  to  comfort  you," 
she  sobbed.  "  I  thought  you  would  like  to  go  too.  /  wish  I 
was  dead." 

"  You,  child  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Boxall ;  "why  should  you 
wish  you  was  dead  ?  You  don't  know  enough  of  life  to  wish 
for  death."  Then,  as  Lucy  went  on  sobbing,  her  tone  changed 
— for  she  began  to  be  concerned  at  her  distress.  "  What  is 
the  matter  with  my  darling  ? "  she  said.  "  Are  you  ill, 
Lucy?" 

Then  Lucy  went  to  her  and  kissed  her,  and  knelt  down,  and 
laid  her  head  in  the  old  woman's  lap.  And  her  grannie 
stroked  her  hair,  and  spoke  to  her  as  if  she  had  been  one  of 
her  own  babies,  and,  in  seeking  to  comfort  her,  forgot  her 
own  troubles  for  the  moment. 

"You've  been  doing  too  much  for  other  people,  Lucy,"  she 
said.  "  We  must  think  of  you  now.  You  must  go  to  the 
sea-side  for  awhile.     You  shan't  go  about  giving  lessons  any 


Mattie  in  the  Country.  195 

more,  my  lamb.  There  is  no  need  for  that  any  more,  for  they 
say  all  the  money  will  be  ours  now." 

And  the  old  woman  wept  again  at  the  thought  of  the  source 
of  their  coming  prosperity. 

"  I  should  like  to  go  to  the  country  very  much,  if  you  would 
go  too,  grannie." 

"  No,  no,  child,  I  don't  want  to  go.  I  don't  want  any  do- 
ing good  to." 

"  But  I  don't  like  to  leave  you,  grannie,"  objected  Lucy. 

."Never  mind  me,  my  dear.  I  shall  be  better  alone  for 
awhile.  And  I  dare  say  there  will  be  some  business  to  at- 
tend to." 

And  so  they  went  on  talking,  till  Lucy  told  her  all  about 
Mrs.  Morgenstern's  plan,  and  how  ill  poor  Mattie  looked,  and 
that  she  would  be  glad  to  go  away  for  a  little  while  herself. 
Mrs.  Boxall  would  not  consent  to  go,  but  she  even  urged  Lucy 
to  accept  the  proposed  arrangement,  and  proceeded  at  once  to 
inquire  into  her  wardrobe,  and  talk  about  mourning. 

Two  days  after,  Lucy  and  Mattie  met  Mrs.  Morgenstern  and 
Miriam  at  the  London  Bridge  railway  station.  Mattie  looked 
quite  dazed,  almost  stupid,  with  the  noise  and  bustle ;  but 
when  they  were  once  in  motion,  she  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and 
looked  comforted.  She  said  nothing,  however,  for  some  time, 
and  her  countenance  revealed  no  surprise.  Whatever  was  out 
of  the  usual  way  always  oppressed  Mattie — not  excited  her ; 
and,  therefore,  the  more  surprising  anything  was,  the  less  did 
it  occasion  any  outward  shape  of  surprise.  But  as  they  flashed 
into  the  first  tunnel,  Lucy  saw  her  start  and  shudder  ere  they 
vanished  from  each  other  in  the  darkness.  She  put  out  her 
hand  and  took  hold  of  the  child's.  It  was  cold  and  trembling ; 
but  as  she  held  it  gently  and  warmly  in  her  own,  it  grew 
quite  still.  By  the  time  the  light  began  to  grow  again,  her 
face  was  peaceful,  and  when  they  emerged  in  the  cutting  be- 
yond, she  was  calm  enough  to  speak  the  thought  that  had 
come  to  her  in  the  dark.     With  another  sigh — ■ 

"  I  knew  the  country  wasn't  nice,"  she  said. 

"  But  you  don't  know  what  the  country  is  yet,"  answered 
Lucy. 

"I  know  quite  enough  of  it,"  returned  Mattie.  "  I  like 
London  best.     I  wish  I  could  see  some  shops." 

Lucy  did  not  proceed  to  argue  the  matter  with  her.  She 
did  not  tell  her  how  unfair  she  was  to  judge  the  country  by 
what  lay  between  her  and  it.  As  well  might  she  have  argued 
with  Thomas  that  the  bitterness  of  the  repentance  from  which 


196  Guild  Court. 

he  shrank  was  not  the  religion  to  which  she  wanted  to  lead 
him  ;  that  religion  itself  was  to  him  inconceivable,  and  could 
but  be  known  when  he  was  in  it.  She  had  tried,  this  plan 
with  him  in  their  last  interview  before  she  left.  She  had  her- 
self, under  the  earnest  teaching  of  Mr.  Fuller,  and  in  the  il- 
lumination of  that  Spirit  for  which  she  prayed,  learned  many 
a  spiritual  lesson,  had  sought  eagerly,  and  therefore  gained, 
rapidly.  For  hers  was  one  of  the  good  soils,  well  prepared 
beforehand  for  the  seed  of  the  redeeming  truth  of  God's  love, 
and  the  Sonship  of  Christ,  and  his  present  power  in  the  hu- 
man soul.  And  she  had  tried,  I  say,  to  make  Thomas  believe 
in  the  blessedness  of  the  man  whose  iniquities  are  pardoned, 
whose  sins  are  covered,  to  whom  the  Lord  imputeth  not  his 
transgressions  ;  but  Thomas  had  replied  only  with  some  of  the 
stock  phrases  of  assent.  A  nature  such  as  his  could  not  think 
of  law  and  obedience  save  as  restraint.  While  he  would  be 
glad  enough  to  have  the  weight  of  conscious  wrong-doing  lifted 
off  him,  he  could  not  see  that  in  yielding  his  own  way  and 
•taking  God's  lay  the  only  freedom  of  which  the  human  being, 
made  in  the  image  of  God,  is  capable. 

Presently  Mattie  found  another  argument  upon  her  side, 
that  is,  the  town-side  of  the  question.  She  had  been  sitting 
for  half  an  hour  watching  the  breath  of  the  snorting  engine, 
as  it  rushed  out  for  a  stormy  flight  over  the  meek  fields,  fal- 
tered, lingered,  faded,  melted,  was  gone. 

"I  told  you  so,"  said  Mattie;  "nothing  lasts  in  the  coun- 
try." 

"What  are  you  looking  at  now  ?  "  asked  Lucy,  bending  for- 
ward to  see. 

"Those  white  clouds,"  answered  Mattie.  "Fve  been  ex- 
pecting them  to  do  something  for  ever  so  long.  And  they 
never  do  anything,  though  they  begin  in  such  a  hurry.  The 
green  gets  the  better  of  them  somehow.  They  melt  away  into 
it,  and  are  all  gone." 

"  But  they  do  the  grass  some  good,  I  dare  say,"  returned 
Lucy — "  in  hot  weather  like  this  especially." 

"  Well,  that's  not  what  they  set  out  for,  anyhow,"  said  Mat- 
tie.  "  They  look  always  as  if  they  were  just  going  to  take 
grand  shapes,  and  make  themselves  up  into  an  army,  and  go 
out  and  conquer  the  world." 

"And  then,"  suggested  Lucy,  yielding  to  the  fancy  of  the 
child,  "they  think  better  of  it,  and  give  themselves  up,  and 
die  into  the  world  to  do  it  good,  instead  of  trampling  it  under 
their  feet  and  hurting  it." 


Mattie  in  the  Country.  197 

"But  how  do  they  come  to  change  their  minds  so  soon  ?" 
asked  Mattie,  beginning  to  smile ;  for  this  was  the  sort  of  in- 
tellectual duel  in  which  her  little  soul  delighted. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  they  do  change  their  minds.  I  don't 
think  they  ever  meant  to  trample  down  the  world.  That  was 
your  notion,  you  know,  Mattie." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  they  set  out  for  ?  Why  do  they 
rush  out  so  fiercely  all  at  once  ?  " 

"I  will  tell  you  what  I  think,"  answered  Lucy,  without 
perceiving  more  than  the  faintest  glimmering  of  the  human 
reality  of  what  she  said,  "I  think  they  rush  out  of  the  hot 
place  in  which  they  are  got  ready  to  do  the  fields  good,  in  so 
much  pain,  that  they  toss  themselves  about  in  strange  ways, 
and  people  think  they  are  fierce  and  angry  when  they  are  only 
suffering — shot  out  into  the  air  from  a  boiling  kettle,  you 
know,  Mattie." 

"Ah!  yes;  I  see,"  answered  Mattie.  "That's  it,  is  it? 
Yes,  I  dare  say.     Out  of  a  kettle  ?  " 

Miriam  had  drawn  near,  and  was  listening,  but  she  could, 
make  little  of  all  this,  for  her  hour  was  not  yet  come  to  ask,  or 
to  understand  such  questions. 

"Yes,  that  great  round  thing  in  front  of  us  is  just  a  great 
kettle,"  said  Lucy. 

"  Well,  I  will  look  at  it  when  we  get  out.  I  thought  there 
wasn't  much  iu  the  country.  I  suppose  we  shall  get  out  again, 
though.     This  isn't  all  the  country,  is  it  ?  " 

Before  they  reached  Hastings,  Mattie  was  fast  asleep.  It  was 
the  evening.  She  scarcely  woke  when  they  stopped  for  the 
last  time.  Lucy  carried  her  from  the  carriage  to  a  cab,  and 
when  they  arrived  at  the  lodgings  where  they  were  expected, 
made  all  haste  to  get  her  to  bed  and  asleep. 

But  she  woke  the  earlier  in  the  morning,  and  the  first  thing 
she  was  aware  of  was  the  crowing  of  a  very  clear-throated  cock, 
such  a  cock  as  Henry  Vaughan  must  have  listened  to  in  the 
morning  of  the  day  when  he  wrote 

"  Father  of  lights!    what  sunnie  seed, 
What  glance  of  day  hast  thou  confined 
Into  this  bird  ?     To  all  the  breed 
This  busie  Ray  thou  hast  assigned ; 
Their  magnetisme  works  all  night, 
And  dreams  of  Paradise  and  light." 

She  could  not  collect  her  thoughts  for  some  time.  She 
was  aware    that  a  change   had  taken   place,  but    what  was 


198  Guild  Court. 

it  ?  "Was  she  somebody  else  ?  What  did  they  use  to  call 
her  ?  Then  she  remembered  Mr.  Spelt's  shop,  and  knew  that 
she  was  Mattie  Kitely.  What  then  had  happened  to  her  ? 
Something  certainly  had  happened,  else  how  could  the  cock 
crow  like  that  ?  She  was  now  aware  that  her  eyes  were  open, 
but  she  did  not  know  that  Lucy  was  in  another  bed  in  the 
same  room  watching  her — whence  afterward,  when  she  put 
Mattie's  words  and  actions  together,  she  was  able  to  give  this 
interpretation  of  her  thoughts.  The  room  was  so  different 
from  anything  she  had  been  used  to,  that  she  could  not  under- 
stand it.  She  crept  out  of  bed  and  went  to  the  window. 
There  was  no  blind  to  it,  only  curtains  drawn  close  in 
front. 

Now  my  reader  must  remember  that  when  Mattie  went  to 
the  window  of  her  own  room  at  home  she  saw  into  Guild 
Court.  The  house  in  which  they  now  were  was  half  way  up 
one  of  the  hills  on  the  sides  of  which  great  part  of  Hastings  is 
built.  The  sun  was  not  shining  upon  the  window  at  this  hour 
of  the  morning,  and  therefore  did  not  obstruct  the  view. 
Hence  when  Mattie  went  between  the  curtains  she  saw  nothing 
but  that  loveliest  of  English  seas — the  Hastings  sea, — lying 
away  out  into  the  sky,  or  rather,  as  it  appeared  to  her  unaccus- 
tomed gaze,  piled  up  like  a  hill  against  the  sky,  which  domed 
it  over,  vast  and  blue,  and  triumphant  in  sunlight — just  a  few 
white  sails  below  and  a  few  white  clouds  above,  to  show  how 
blue  the  sea  and  sky  were  in  this  glory  of  an  autumn  morning. 
She  saw  nothing  of  the  earth  on  which  she  was  upheld  ;  only 
the  sea  and  the  sky.  She  started  back  with  a"  feeling  that  she 
could  never  describe  ;  there  was  terror,  and  loneliness,  and 
helplessness  in  it.  She  turned  and  flew  to  her  bed,  but  instead 
of  getting  into  it,  fell  down  on  her  knees  by  the  side  of  it, 
clutched  the  bed-clothes,  and  sobbed  and  wept  aloud.  Lucy 
was  by  her  side  in  a  moment,  took  her  in  her  arms,  carried 
her  into  her  own  bed,  and  comforted  her  in  her  bosom. 

Mattie  had  been  all  her  life  sitting  in  the  camera-obscura  of 
her  own  microcosm,  watching  the  shadows  that  went  and 
came,  and  now  first  she  looked  up  and  out  upon  the  world  be- 
yond and  above  her.  All  her  doings  had  gone  on  in  the  world 
of  her  own  imaginings  ;  and  although  that  big  brain  of  hers 
contained — no,  I  cannot  say  contained,  but  what  else  am  I  to 
say  ?— a  being  greater  than  all  that  is  seen,  heard,  or  handled, 
yet  the  outward  show  of  divine  imagination  which  now  met 
her  eyes  might  well  overpower  that  world  within  her.  I  fancy 
that,  like. the  blind  to  whom  sight  is  given,  she  did  not  at 


Mattie  in  the  Country.  199 

first  recognize  the  difference  between  herself  and  it,  but  felt 
as  if  it  was  all  inside  her  and  she  did  not  know  what  to  do 
with  it.  She  would  not  have  cried  at  the  sight  of  a  rose,  as 
Poppie  did.  I  doubt  whether  Mattie's  was  altogether  such  a 
relined  nature  as  Poppie's — to  begin  with  :  she  would  have 
rather  patronized  the  rose-tree,  and  looked  down  upon  it  as  a 
presuming  and  rather  unpleasant  thing  because  it  bore  dying 
children ;  and  she  needed,  some  time  or  other,  and  that  was 
noio,  just  such  a  sight  as  this  to  take  the  conceit  out  of  her. 
Less  of  a  vision  of  the  eternal  would  not  have  been  sufficient. 
Was  it  worth  while  ?  Yes.  The  whole  show  of  the  universe 
was  well  spent  to  take  an  atom  of  the  self  out  of  a  child.  God 
is  at  much  trouble  with  us,  but  he  never  weighs  material  ex- 
pense against  spiritual  gain  to  one  of  his  creatures.  The 
whole  universe  existed  for  Mattie.  There  is  more  than  that 
that  the  Father  has  not  spared.  And  no  human  fault,  the 
smallest,  is  overcome,  save  by  the  bringing  in  of  true,  grand 
things.  A  sense  of  the  infinite  and  the  near,  the  far  yet  im- 
pending, rebuked  the  conceit  of  Mattie  to  the  very  core,  and 
without  her  knowing  why  or  how.  She  clung  to  Lucy  as  a 
child  would  cling,  and  as,  all  through  her  illness,  she  had 
never  clung  before. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Mattie,  dear  ?"  asked  Lucy, 
but  asked  in  vain.  Mattie  only  clung  to  her  the  closer,  and  be- 
gan a  fresh  utterance  of  sobs.  Lucy  therefore  held  her  peace  for 
some  time  and  waited.  And  in  the  silence  of  that  waiting  she 
became  aware  that  a  lark  was  singing  somewhere  out  in  the 
great  blue  vault. 

"Listen  to  the  lark  singing  so  sweetly,"  she  said  at  length. 
And  Mattie  moved  her  head  enough  to  show  that  she  would 
listen,  and  lay  still  a  long  while  listening.  At  length  she  said, 
with  a  sob  : 

"  What  is  a  lark  ?  I  never  saw  one,  Miss  Burton." 

"A  bird  like  a  sparrow.  You  know  what  a  sparrow  is, 
don't  you,  dear  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  have  seen  sparrows  often  in  the  court.  They 
pick  up  dirt." 

"Well,  a  lark  is  like  a  sparrow;  only  it  doesn't  pick  up 
dirt,  and  sings  as  you  hear  it.  And  it  flies  so  far  up  into  the 
sky  that  you  can't  see  it — you  can  only  hear  the  song  it  scat- 
ters down  upon  the  earth." 

"  Oh,  how  dreadful !  "  said  Mattie,  burying  her  head  again 
as  if  she  would  shut  out  hearing  and  sight  and  all. 

"What  is  it  that  is  dreadful  ?  I  don't  understand  you,  Mattie." 


200  Guild  Court 

"To  fly  up  into  that  awful  place  up  there.     Shall  we  have 

to  do  that  when  we  die  ?  " 

"It  is  not  an  awful  place,  dear.  God  is  there,  you 
know." 

"But  I  am  frightened.  And  if  God  is  up  there,  I  shall  be 
frightened  at  him  too.  It  is  so  dreadful !  I  used  to  think 
that  God  could  see  me  when  I  was  in  London.  But  how  he 
is  to  see  me  in  this  great  place,  with  so  many  things  about, 
cocks  and  larks,  and  all,  I  can't  think.  I'm  so  little  !  I'm 
hardly  worth  taking  care  of. " 

"But  you  remember,  Mattie,  what  Somebody  says — that 
God  takes  care  of  every  sparrow." 

"Yes,  but  that's  the  sparrows,  and  they're  in  the  town,  you 
know,"  said  Mattie,  with  an  access  of  her  old  fantastic  per- 
versity, flying  for  succor,  as  it  always  does,  to  false  logic. 

Lucy  saw  that  it  was  time  to  stop.  The  child's  fear  was 
gone  for  the  present,  or  she  could  not  have  talked  such  non- 
sense. It  was  just  as  good,  however,  as  the  logic  of  most  of 
those  who  worship  the  letter  and  call  it  the  word. 

"Why  don't  you  speak,  Miss  Burton  ?"  asked  Mattie  at 
length,  no  doubt  conscience-stricken  by  her  silence. 

"Because  you  are  talking  nonsense  now,  Mattie." 

"  I  thought  that  was  it.  But  why  should  that  make  you 
not  speak  ?  for  I  need  the  more  to  hear  sense." 

"No,  Mattie.  Mr.  Fuller  says  that  when  people  begin  to 
talk  falsely,  it  is  better  to  be  quite  silent,  and  let  them  say 
what  they  please,  till  the  sound  of  their  own  nonsense  makes 
them  ashamed." 

"As  it  did  me,  Miss  Burton,  as  soon  as  you  wouldn't  speak 
any  more." 

"He  says  it  does  no  good  to  contradict  them  then,  for  they 
are  not  only  unworthy  to  hear  the  truth — that's  not  it — if 
they  would  hear  it — but  they  are  not  fit  to  hear  it.  They  are 
not  in  a  mood  to  get  any  good  from  it ;  for  they  are  holding 
the  door  open  for  the  devil  to  come  in,  and  truth  can't  get  in 
at  the  same  door  with  the  devil." 

"  Oh,  how  dreadful !  To  think  of  me  talking  like  Syne  ! " 
said  Mattie.  "  I  won't  do  it  again,  Miss  Burton.  Do  tell  me 
what  Somebody  said  about  God  and  the  sparrows.  Didn't  he 
say  something  about  counting  their  feathers  ?  I  think  I 
remember  Mr.  Spelt  reading  that  to  me  one  night." 

"He  said  something  about  counting  your  hairs,  Mattie." 

"  Mine  f  " 

"Well,  he  said  it  to  all  the  people  that  would  listen  to  him. 


Mattie  in  the  Country.  201 

I  dare  say  there  were  some  that  could  not  believe  it  be- 
cause they  did  not  care  to  be  told  it." 

"That's  me,  Miss  Burton.  But  I  won't  do  it  again. 
Well — what  more  ?  " 

"  Only  this,  Mattie  :  that  if  God  knows  how  many  hairs  you 
have  got  on  your  head — " 

"  My  big  head,"  interrupted  Mattie.     "  Well  ?  " 

"  Yes,  on  your  big  head — if  God  knows  that,  you  can't  think 
you're  too  small  for  him  to  look  after  you." 

"  I  will  try  not  to  be  frightened  at  the  big  sky  any  more, 
dear  Miss  Burton  ;  I  will  try." 

In  a  few  minutes  she  was  fast  asleep  again. 

Lucy's  heart  was  none  the  less  trustful  that  she  had  tried  to 
increase  Mattie's  faith.  He  who  cared  for  the  sparrows  would 
surely  hear  her  cry  for  Thomas,  nay,  would  surely  look  after 
Thomas  himself.  The  father  did  not  forget  the  prodigal  son 
all  the  time  that  he  was  away  ;  did  not  think  of  him  only  when 
he  came  back  again,  worn  and  sorrowful.  In  teaching  Mattie 
she  had  taught  herself.  She  had  been  awake  long  before  her, 
turning  over  and  over  her  troubled  thoughts  till  they  were  all 
in  a  raveled  sleeve  of  care.  Now  she  too  fell  fast  asleep  in  her 
hope,  and  when  she  awoke,  her  thoughts  were  all  knit  up  again 
in  an  even  resolve  to  go  on  and  do  her  duty,  casting  her  care 
upon  Him  that  cared  for  her. 

And  now  Mattie's  childhood  commenced.  She  had  "had 
none  as  yet.  Her  disputatiousness  began  to  vanish.  She 
could  not  indulge  it  in  the  presence  of  the  great  sky,  which 
grew  upon  her  till  she  felt,  as  many  children  and  some  con- 
science-stricken men  have  felt — that  it  was  the  great  eye  of 
God  looking  at  her  ;  and  although  this  feeling  was  chiefly  as- 
sociated with  awe  at  first,  she  soon  began  to  love  the  sky,  and 
to  be  sorry  and  oppressed  upon  cloudy  days  when  she  could  no 
longer  look  up  into  it. 

The  next  day  they  went  down  to  the  beach,  in  a  quiet  place, 
among  great  stones,  under  the  east  cliff.  Lucy  sat  down  on 
one  of  them,  and  began  to  read  a  book  Mr.  Fuller  had  lent 
her.  Miriam  was  at  a  little  distance,  picking  up  shells,  and 
Mattie  on  another  stone  nearer  the  sea.  The  tide  was  rising. 
Suddenly  Mattie  came  scrambling  in  great  haste  over  all  that 
lay  between  her  and  Lucy.  Her  face  was  pale,  scared,  and 
eager. 

"  I'm  so  frightened  again  !  "  she  said  ;  "  and  I  can't  help  it. 
The  sea  !    What  does  it  mean  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Mattie  ?  "  returned  Lucy,  smiling. 


202  Guild  Court. 

"  Well,  it's  roaring  at  me,  and  coming  nearer  and  nearer,  as 
if  it  wanted  to  swallow  me  up.     I  don't  like  it." 

"  You  must  not  be  afraid  of  it.     God  made  it,  you  know." 

11  Why  does  he  let  it  roar  at  me,  then  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     Perhaps  to  teach  you  not  to  be  afraid." 

Mattie  said  no  more,  stood  a  little  wbile  by  Lucy,  and  then 
scrambled  back  to  her  former  place. 

The  next  day,  they  managed  with  some  difficulty  to  get  up 
on  the  East  Hill  ;  Mattie  was  very  easily  worn  out,  especially 
with  climbing.  She  gazed  at  the  sea  below  her,  the  sky  over 
her  head,  the  smooth  grass  under  her  feet,  and  gave  one  of 
her  great  sighs.     Then  she  looked  troubled. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  hadn't  any  clothes  on,"  she  said. 

"How  is  that,  Mattie  ?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  I  feel  as  if  I  couldn't  stand  steady — 
as  if  I  hadn't  anything  to  keep  me  up.  In  London,  you  know, 
the  houses  were  always  beside  to  hold  a  body  up,  and  keep 
them  steady.  But  here,  if  it  weren't  for  Somebody,  I  should 
be  so  frightened  for  falling  down — I  don't  know  where  ! " 

Lucy  smiled.  She  did  not  see  then  how  exactly  the  child 
symbolized  those  who  think  they  have  f ai  th  in  God,  and  yet 
when  one  of  the  swaddling  bands  of  system  or  dogma  to  which 
they  have  been  accustomed  is  removed,  or  even  only  slackened, 
immediately  feel  as  if  there  were  no  God,  as  if  the  earth  un- 
der their  feet  were  a  cloud,  and  the  sky  over  them  a  color, 
and  nothing  to  trust  in  anywhere.  They  rest  in  their  swad- 
dling bands,  not  in  God.  The  loosening  of  these  is  God's  gift 
to  them  that  they  may  grow.     But  first  they  are  much  afraid. 

Still  Mattie  looked  contemptuously  on  the  flowers.  Wan- 
dering along  the  cliff,  they  came  to  a  patch  that  was  full  of 
daisies.  Miriam's,  familiarity  with  the  gorgeous  productions 
of  green-house  and  hot-house  had  not  injured  her  capacity  for 
enjoying  these  peasants  of  flowers.  She  rushed  among  them 
with  a  cry  of  pleasure,  and  began  gathering  them  eagerly. 
Mattie  stood  by  with  a  look  of  condescending  contempt  upon 
her  pale  face. 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  gather  some  daisies  too,  Mattie?" 
suggested  Lucy. 

"  Where's  the  use  ?"  said  Mattie.  "  The  poor  things'll  be 
withered  in  no  time.  It's  almost  a  shame  to  gather  them,  I 
do  think." 

"  Well,  you  needn't  gather  them  if  you  don't"  want  to  have 
them,"  returned  Lucy.  "But  I  wonder  you  don't  like  them, 
they  are  so  pretty." 


Mattie  in  the  Country.  203 

"  But  they  don't  last.  I  don't  like  things  that  die.  I  had 
a  little  talk  with  Mr.  Fuller  about  that." 

Now  Mr.  Fuller  had  told  Lucy  what  the  child  had  said,  and 
this  had  resulted  in  a  good  deal  of  talk .  Mr.  Fuller  was  a  great 
lover  of  Wordsworth,  and  the  book  Lucy  was  now  reading,  the 
one  he  had  lent  her,  was  Wordsworth's  Poems.  She  had  not 
found  what  she  now  answered,  either  in  Wordsworth's  poems 
or  in  Mr.  Fuller's  conversation,  but  it  came  from  them  both, 
mingling  with  her  love  to  God,  and  her  knowledge  of  the 
Saviour's  words,  with  the  question  of  the  child  to  set  her  mind 
working  with  them  all  at  once.  She  thought  for  a  moment, 
and  then  said  : 

"  Listen,  Mattie.  You  don't  dislike  to  hear  me  talk,  do 
you  ?" 

"  No,  indeed,"  answered  Mattie. 

"  You  like  the  words  I  say  to  you,  then  ?  " 

' i  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Mattie,  wondering  what  would  come 
next. 

"But  my  words  die  as  soon  as  they  are  out  of  my  mouth." 

Mattie  began  to  see  a  glimmering  of  something  coming,  and 
held  her  peace  and  listened.     Lucy  went  on. 

"  Well,  the  flowers  are  some  of  God's  words,  and  they  last 
longer  than  mine." 

"  But  I  understand  your  words.  I  know  what  you  want  to 
say  to  me.     And  I  don't  know  the  meaning  of  them." 

"  That's  because  you  haven't  looked  at  them  long  enough. 
You  must  suppose  them  words  in  God's  book,  and  try  to  read 
them  and  understand  them." 

"I  will  try,"  said  Mattie,  and  walked  soberly  toward  Mir- 
iam. 

But  she  did  not  begin  to  gather  the  daisies  as  Miriam  was 
doing.  She  lay  down  in  the  grass  just  as  Chaucer  tells  us  he 
used  to  do  in  the  mornings  of  May  for  the  same  purpose — to 
look  at  the  daisy — "leaning  on  my  elbow  and  my  side"  ;  and 
thus  she  continued  for  some  time.  Then  she  rose  and  came 
slowly  back  to  Lucy. 

"I  can't,  tell  what  they  mean,"  she  said.  "I  have  been 
trying  very  hard,  too." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  understand  them  or  not,  myself. 
But  I  fancy  we  get  some  good  from  what  God  shows  us  even 
when  we  don't  understand  it  much." 

" They  are  such  little  things  !"  said  Mattie.  "I  can  hardly 
fancy  them  worth  making." 

"  God  thinks  them  worth  making,  though,  or  he  would  not 


204  Guild  Court 

make  tliem.  He  wouldn't  do  anything  that  he  did  not  care 
about  doing.  There's  the  lark  again.  Listen  to  him,  how 
glad  he  is.  He  is  so  happy  that  he  can't  bear  it  without  sing- 
ing. If  he  couldn't  sing  it  would  break  his  heart,  I  fancy. 
Do  you  think  God  would  have  made  his  heart  so  glad  if  he  did 
not  care  for  his  gladness,  or  given  him  such  a  song  to  sing — for 
he  must  have  made  the  song  and  taught  it  to  the  lark — the 
song  is  just  the  lark's  heart  coming  out  in  sounds — would  he 
have  made  all  the  lark  if  he  did  not  care  for  it  ?  And  he 
would  not  have  made  the  daisies  so  pretty  if  their  prettiness 
was  not  worth  something  in  his  eyes.  And  if  God  cares  for 
them,  surely  it  is  worth  our  while  to  care  for  them  too.5' 

Mattie  listened  very  earnestly,  went  back  to  the  daisies,  and 
lay  down  again  beside  a  group  of  them.  Miriam  kept  running 
about  from  one  spot  to  another,  gathering  them.  What  Mat- 
tie  said,  or  what  Miriam  replied,  I  do  not  know,  but  in  a  little 
while  Mattie  came  to  Lucy  with  a  red  face — a  rare  show  in  her. 

"  I  don't  like  Miss  Miriam,"  she  said.  "She's  not  nice  at  all." 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  ?"  asked  Lucy,  in  some  surprise, 
for  the  children  had  got  on  very  well  together  as  yet.  "  What 
has  she  been  doing  ?  " 

"  She  doesn't  care  a  bit  for  Somebody.     I  don't  like  her." 

"But  Somebody  likes  her." 

To  this  Mattie  returned  no  answer,  but  stood  thoughtful. 
The  blood  withdrew  from  her  face  to  its  fountain,  and  she 
went  back  to  the  daisies  once  more. 

The  following  day  she  began  to  gather  flowers  as  other  chil- 
dren do,  even  to  search  for  them  as  for  hidden  treasures. 
And  if  she  did  not  learn  their  meaning  with  her  understanding, 
she  must  have  learned  it  with  her  heart,  for  she  would  gaze 
at  some  of  them  in  a  way  that  showed  plainly  enough  that  she 
felt  their  beauty  ;  and  in  the  beauty,  the  individual  loveliness 
of  such  things,  lies  the  dim  lesson  with  which  they  faintly 
tincture  our  being.  No  man  can  be  quite  the  same  he  was 
after  having  loved  a  new  flower. 

Thus,  by  degrees,  Mattie's  thought  and  feeling  were  drawn 
outward.  Her  health  improved.  Body  and  mind  reacted  on 
each  other.  She  grew  younger  and  humbler.  Every  day  her 
eyes  were  opened  to  some  fresh  beauty  on  the  earth,  some  new 
shadowing  of  the  sea,  some  passing  loveliness  in  the  heavens. 
She  had  hitherto  refused  the  world  as  a  thing  she  had  not 
proved  ;  now  she  began  to  find  herself  at  home-in  it,  that  is, 
to  find  that  it  was  not  a  strange  world  to  which  she  had  come, 
but  a  home  ;  not,  indeed,  the  innermost,  sacredest  room  of  the 


Poppie  in  Town.  205 

house  where  the  Father  sat,  but  still  a  home,  full  of  his  pres- 
ence, his  thoughts,  his  designs.  Is  it  any  wonder  that  a  child 
should  prosper  better  in  such  a  world  than  in  a  catacomb  filled 
with  the  coffined  remains  of  thinking  men  ?  I  mean  her 
father's  book-shop.  Here,  God  was  ever  before  her  in  the 
living  forms  of  his  thought,  a  power  and  a  blessing.  Every 
wind  that  blew  was  his  breath,  and  the  type  of  his  inner 
breathing  upon  the  human  soul.  Every  morning  was  filled 
with  his  light,  and  the  type  of  the  growing  of  that  light  which 
lighteth  every  man  that  cometh  into  the  world.  And  there 
are  no  natural  types  that  do  not  dimly  work  their  own  spiritual 
reality  upon  the  open  heart  of  a  human  being. 

Before  she  left  Hastings,  Mattie  was  almost  a  child. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

POPPIE  IK  TOWN. 

Between  Mr.  Spelt's  roost  and  the  house  called  No.  1  of 
Guild  Court  there  stood  a  narrow  house,  as  tall  as  the  rest, 
which  showed  by  the  several  bell-pulls,  ranged  along  the  side  of 
the  door,  that  it  was  occupied  by  different  households.  Mr.  Spelt 
had  for  some  time  had  his  eye  upon  it,  in  the  hope  of  a  vacancy 
occurring  in  its  top  chambers,  occupying  which  he  would  be 
nearer  his  work,  and  have  a  more  convenient  home  in  case  he 
should  some  day  succeed  in  taming  and  capturing  Poppie. 
Things  had  been  going  well  in  every  way  with  the -little  tailor. 
He  had  had  a  good  many  more  private  customers  for  the  last 
few  months,  began  in  consequence  to  look  down  from  a  grow- 
ing hight  upon  slop-work,  though  he  was  too  prudent  to  drop 
it  all  at  once,  and  had  three  or  four  pounds  in  the  post-office 
savings-bank.  Likewise  his  fishing  had  prospered.  Poppie 
came  for  her  sweets  as  regularly  as  a  robin  for  his  crumbs  in 
winter.  Spelt,  however,  did  not  now  confine  his  bait  to  sweets  ; 
a  fresh  roll,  a  currant  bun,  sometimes — when  his  longing  for 
his  daughter  had  been  especially  strong  the  night  before,  even 
a  Bath  bun — would  hang  suspended  by  a  string  from  the  aerial 
threshold,  so  that  Poppie  could  easily  reach  it,  and  yet  it  should 
be  under  the  protection  of  the  tailor  from  chance  maraud- 
ers.    And  every  morning  as  she  took  it,  she  sent  a  sweet  smile 


206  Guild  Court 

of  thanks  to  the  upper  regions  whence  came  her  aid.  Though 
not  very  capable  of  conversation,  she  would  occasionally  answer 
a  few  questions  about  facts — as,  for  instance,  where  she  had 
slept  the  last  night,  to  which  the  answer  would  commonly  be, 
"Mother  Flanaghan's  ; "  but  once,  to  the  tailor's  no  small 
discomposure,  was  "The  Jug."  She  did  not  seem  to  know 
exactly,  however,  how  it  was  that  she  got  incarcerated  :  there 
had  been  a  crowd,  and  somebody  had  prigged  something,  and 
there  was  a  scurry  and  a  running,  and  she  scudded  as  usual, 
and  got  took  up.  Mr.  Spelt  was  more  anxious  than  ever  to 
take  her  home  after  this.  But  sometimes,  the  moment  he 
began  to  talk  to  her  she  would  run  away,  without  the  smallest 
appearance  of  rudeness,  only  of  inexplicable  oddity ;  and  Mr. 
Spelt  thought  sometimes  that  he  was  not  a  single  step  nearer 
to  the  desired  result  than  when  he  first  baited  his  hook.  He 
regarded  it  as  a  good  omen,  however,  wrhen,  by  the  death  of 
an  old  woman  and  the  removal  of  her  daughter,  the  topmost 
floor  of  the  house,  consisting  of  two  small  rooms,  became 
vacant ;  and  he  secured  them  at  a  weekty  rental  quite  within 
the  reach  of  his  improved  means.  He  did  not  imagine  how 
soon  he  would  be  able  to  put  them  to  the  use  he  most  desired. 
One  evening,  just  as  the  light  was  fading  and  he  proceeded 
to  light  a  candle  to  enable  him  to  go  on  with  his  work,  he 
heard  the  patter  of  her  bare  feet  on  the  slabs,  for  his  ear  was 
very  keen  for  this  most  pleasant  of  sounds,  and.  looking  down, 
saw  the  child  coming  toward  him,  holding  the  bottom  of  her 
ragged  frock  up  to  her  head.  He  had  scarcely  time  to  be  alarmed 
before  she  stopped  at  the  foot  of  his  shop,  looked  up  pale  as 
death,  with  a  dark  streak  of  blood  running  through  the  paleness, 
and  burst  into  a  wail.  The  little  man  was  down  in  a  moment, 
but  before  his  feet  reached  the  ground  Poppie  had  fallen  upon 
it  in  a  faint.  He  lifted  the  child  in  his  arms  with  a  strange 
mixture  of  pity  and  horror  in  his  big  heart,  and  sped  up  the 
three  stairs  to  his  own  dwelling.  There  he  laid  her  on  his  bed, 
struck  a  light,  and  proceeded  to  examine  her.  He  found  a 
large  and  deep  cut  in  her  head,  from  which  the  blood  was  still 
flowing.  He  rushed  down  again,  and  fortunately  found  Dol- 
man on  the  point  of  leaving.  Him  he  sent  for  the  doctor,  and 
returned  like  an  arrow  to  his  treasure.  Having  done  all  he 
could,  with  the  aid  of  his  best  Sunday  shirt,  to  stop  the  bleed- 
ing, he  waited  impatiently  for  the  doctor's  arrival,  which 
seemed  long  delayed.  Before  he  came  the  child  began  to  re- 
vive ;  and,  taught  by  the  motion  of  her  lips,  he  got  some  water 
and  held  to  them.     Poppie  drank  and  opened  her  eyes.    When 


Popple  in  Town.  207 

she  saw  who  was  bending  over  her,  the  faintest  ghost  of  a  smile 
glimmered  about  her  mouth,  and  she  closed  her  eyes  again, 
murmuring  something  about  Mother  Flanaghan. 

As  far  as  he  could  gather  from  piecing  together  what  the 
child  said  afterward,  Mr.  Spelt  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
Mrs.  Flanaghan  had  come  home  a  little  the  worse  for  "cream 
of  the  valley,"  and  wanted  more.  Poppie  hapj)ened  to  be 
alone  in  her  room  when  she  came,  for  we  have  seen  that  she 
sometimes  forgot  to  lock  the  door,  if,  indeed,  there  was  a  lock 
on  it.  She  had  nothing  to  care  for,  however,  but  her  gin- 
bottle  ;  and  that  she  thought  she  hid  safely  enough.  Whether 
she  had  left  it  empty  or  not,  I  do  not  know,  but  she  found  it 
empty  when  she  neither  desired  nor  expected  to  find  it  so  ;  and. 
coming  to  the  hasty  and  stupid  conclusion  that  poor  Poppie 
was  the  thief — just  as  an  ill-trained  child  expends  the  rage  of 
a  hurt  upon  the  first  person  within  his  reach — she  broke  the 
vile  vessel  upon  Poppie's  head  with  the  result  we  have  seen. 
But  the  child  had  forgotten  everything  between  that  and  her 
waking  upon  Mr.  Spelt's  bed. 

The  doctor  came  and  dressed  her  wound,  and  gave  directions 
for  her  treatment. 

And  now  Mr.  Spelt  was  in  the  seventh  heaven  of  delight — he 
had  a  little  woman  of  his  own  to  take  care  of.  He  was  thirty- 
nine  years  of  age  ;  and  now,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  saw  a 
prospect  of  happiness  opening  before  him.  No — once  before, 
when  he  led  the  splendid  Mrs.  Spelt  home  from  church,  he 
had  looked  into  a  rosy  future  ;  but  the  next  morning  the  pros- 
pect closed,  and  had  never  opened  again  till  now.  He  did 
not  lie  down  all  that  night,  but  hovered  about  her  bed,  as  if 
she  had  been  a  creature  that  might  any  moment  spread  out 
great  wings  and  fly  away  from  him  forever.  Sometimes  he 
had  to  soothe  her  with  kind  words,  for  she  wandered  a  good 
deal,  and  would  occasionally  start  up  with  wild  looks,  as  if  to 
fly  once  more  from  Mother  Flanaghan  with  the  gin- bottle 
bludgeon  uplifted  in  her  hand  ;  then  the  sound  of  Mr.  Spelt's 
voice  would  instantly  soothe  her,  and  she  would  lie  down  again 
and  sleep.  But  she  scarcely  spoke ;  for  at  no  time  was  Poppie 
given  to  much  speech. 

When  the  light  came,  he  hurried  down-stairs  to  his  shop, 
got  his  work  and  all  his  implements  out,  carried  them  up,  and 
sat  with  them  on  the  floor  where  he  could  see  Poppie's  face. 
There  he  worked  away  busily  at  a  pair  of  cords  for  a  groom, 
every  now  and  then  lifting  his  eyes  from  his  seam  to  look  down 
into  the  court,    and  finding  them  always   met  by  the   floor. 


208  Guild  Court 

Then  his  look  would  go  up  to  the  bed,  seeking  Poppie's  pale 
face.  He  found  he  could  not  get  on  so  fast  as  usual.  Still  he 
made  progress  ;  and  it  was  a  comfort  to  think  that  by  working 
thus  early  he  was  saving  time  for  nursing  his  little  white 
Poppie. 

When  at  length  she  woke,  she  seemed  a  little  better ;  but 
she  soon  grew  more  feverish,  and  soon  he  found  that  he  must 
constantly  watch  her,  for  she  was  ready  to  spring  out  of  bed 
any  moment.  The  father-heart  grew  dreadfully  anxious  before 
the  doctor  came  ;  and  all  that  day  and  the  next  he  got  very 
little  work  done,  for  the  poor  child  was  really  in  danger.  In- 
deed it  was  more  than  a  week  before  he  began  to  feel  a  little 
easy  about  her  ;  and  ten  days  yet  passed  before  she  was  at  all 
able  to  leave  her  bed. 

And  herein  lay  the  greatest  blessing  both  for  Spelt  and 
Poppie.  I  doubt  if  anything  else  could  have  given  him  a 
reasonable  chance,  as  we  say,  of  taming  the  wild  animal.  Her 
illness  compelled  her  into  such  a  continuance  of  dependent  as- 
sociation with  him,  that  the  idea  of  him  had  time  to  grow  into 
her  heart ;  while  all  her  scudding  propensities,  which  pre- 
vented her  from  making  a  quiet  and.  thorough  acquaintance 
with  anybody,  were  not  merely  thwarted,  but  utterly  gone, 
while  she  remained  weak.  The  humanity  of  the  child  had  there- 
fore an  opportunity  of  developing  itself  ;  obstructions  removed, 
the  well  of  love  belonging  to  her  nature  began  to  pulse  and  to 
flow,  and  she  was,  as  it  were,  compelled  to  love  Mr.  Spelt ;  so 
that,  by  the  time  old  impulses  returned  with  returning  health, 
he  had  a  chance  against  them. 


CHAPTEE  XXX 

ME.    FULLER   1ST   HIS   CHURCH. 

Mr.  Fuller's  main  bent  of  practical  thought  was  how  to 
make  his  position  in  the  church  as  far  as  possible  from  a  sine- 
cure. If  the  church  was  a  reality  at  all,  if  it  represented  a  vi- 
tal body,  every  portion  of  it  ought  to  be  instinct  with  life.  Yet 
here  was  one  of  its  cells,  to  speak  physiologically,  all  but  in- 
active— a  huge  building  of  no  use  all  the  week,  and  on  Sun- 
days filled  with  organ  sounds,  a  few  responses  from  a  sprink- 


Mr.  Fuller  in  his  Church.  209 

ling  of  most  indifferent  worshipers,  and  his  own  voice  reading 
prayers  and  crying  "with  sick  assay"  sometimes — to  move 
those  few  to  be  better  men  and  women  than  they  were.  Now, 
so  far  it  was  a  center  of  life,  and  as  such  well  worthy  of  any 
amount  of  outlay  of  mere  money.  But  even  money  itself  is  a 
holy  thing  ;  and  from  the  money  point  alone,  low  as  that  is,  it 
might  well  be  argued  that  this  church  was  making  no  adequate 
return  for  the  amount  expended  upon  it.  Not  that  one  thought 
of  honest  comfort  to  a  human  soul  is  to  be  measured  against 
millions  of  expense  ;  but  that  what  the  money  did  might  well 
be  measured  against  what  the  money  might  do.  To  the  com- 
mercial mind  such  a  church  suggests  immense  futility,  a  judg- 
ment correct  in  so  far  as  it  falls  short  of  its  possibilities.  To 
tell  the  truth,  and  a  good  truth  it  is  to  tell,  Mr.  Fuller  was 
ashamed  of  St.  Amos's,  and  was  thinking  day  and  night  how 
to  retrieve  the  character  of  his  church. 

And  he  reasoned  thus  with  himself,  in  the  way  mostly  of 
question  and  answer  : 

"What  is  a  Sunday?"  he  asked,  answering  himself — "A 
quiet  hollow  scooped  out  of  the  windy  hill  of  the  week." 
"  Must  a  man  then  go  for  six  days  shelterless  ere  he  comes  to 
the  repose  of  the  seventh  ?  Are  there  to  be  no  great  rocks  to 
shadow  him  between  ? — no  hiding-places  from  the  wind  to  let 
him  take  breath  and  heart  for  the  next  struggle  ?  And  if 
there  ought  to  be,  where  are  they  to  be  found  if  not  in  our 
churches?  —  scattered  like  little  hollows  of  sacred  silence 
scooped  out  of  the  roar  and  bustle  of  our  cities,  dumb  to  the 
questions — What  shall  we  eat  ?  what  shall  we  drink  ?  and 
wherewithal  shall  we  be  clothed  ? — but,  alas  !  equally  dumb  to . 
the  question — Where  shall  I  find  rest,  for  I  am  weary  and 
heavy-laden  ?  These  churches  stand  absolute  caverns  of  silence 
amid  the  thunder  of  the  busy  city — with  a  silence  which  does 
not  remind  men  of  the  eternal  silence  of  truth,  but  of  the 
carelessness  of  heart  wherewith  men  regard  that  silence. 
Their  work  is  nowhere  till  Sunday  comes,  and  nowhere  after 
that  till  the  next  Sunday  or  the  next  saint's  day.  How  is  this  ? 
Why  should  they  not  lift  up  the  voice  of  silence  against  the 
tumult  of  care  ?  against  the  dissonance  of  Comus  and  his 
crew  ?  How  is  it  that  they  do  not — standing  with  their  glit- 
tering, silent  cocks  and  their  golden,  unopening  keys  high 
uplifted  in  sunny  air  ?  Why  is  it  that  their  cocks  do  not 
crow,  and  their  keys  do  not  open  ?  Because  their  cocks  are 
busy  about  how  the  wind  blows,  and  their  keys  do  not  fit  their 
own  doors.  They  may  be  caverns  of  peace,  but  they  are  cav- 
14 


210  Guild  Court. 

ems  without  entrance — sealed  fountains — a  mockery  of  the 
thirst  and  confusion  of  men."  "But  men  do  not  want  en- 
trance. What  is  the  use  of  opening  the  doors  of  our  churches 
so  long  as  men  do  not  care  to  go  in  ?  Times  are  changed  now." 
"  But  does  not  the  very  word  Revelation  imply  a  something 
coming  from  heaven — not  certainly  before  men  were  ready  for 
it,  for  God  cannot  be  precipitate — but  before  they  had  begun 
to  pray  for  it  ?  "  Mr.  Fuller  remembered  how  his  own  father 
used  always  to  compel  his  children  to  eat  one  mouthful  of  any 
dish  he  heard  them  say  at  table  that  they  did  not  like — where- 
upon they  generally  chose  to  go  on  with  it.  "  But  they  won't 
come  in."  "  How  can  you  tell  till  you  try,  till  you  fulfill  the 
part  of  the  minister  (good  old  beautiful  Christian  word),  and 
be  'the  life  o'  the  building  ?'"  "  Presumption  !  Are  not  the 
prayers  everything?"  "At  least  not  till  you  get  people  to 
pray  them."  "You  make  too  much  of  the  priest."  "Leave 
him  for  God,  and  the  true  priest  has  all  the  seal  of  his  priest- 
hood that  he  wants."  At  least  so  thought  Mr.  Fuller.  "  What 
is  the  priest  ?  "  he  asked,  going  on  with  the  same  catechism. 
"Just  a  man  to  be  among  men  what  the  Sunday  is  among  the 
work-days  of  the  week — a  man  to  remind  you  that  there  is  a 
life  within  this  life,  or  beyond  and  about  it,  if  you  like  that 
mode  better — for  extremes  meet  in  the  truest  figures — that 
care  is  not  of  God,  that  faith  and  confidence  are  truer,  simpler, 
more  of  common  sense  than  balances  at  bankers'  or  preference 
shares.  He  is  a  protest  against  the  money-heaping  tendencies 
of  men,  against  the  desire  of  rank  or  estimation  or  any  kind 
of  social  distinction.  With  him  all  men  are  equal,  as  in  the 
Church  all  have  equal  rights,  and  rank  ceases  on  the  threshold 
of  the  same,  overpowered  by  the  presence  of  the  Son  of  Mary, 
who  was  married  to  a  carpenter — overpowered  by  the  presence 
of  the  God  of  the  whole  earth,  who  wrote  the  music  for  the 
great  organ  of  the  spheres,  after  he  had  created  them  to  play 
the  same."  Such  was  the  calling  of  the  clergyman,  as  Mr. 
Fuller  saw  it.  Bather  a  lofty  one,  and  simply  a  true  one.  If 
the  clergyman  cannot  rouse  men  to  seek  his  God  and  their 
God,  if  he  can  only  rest  in  his  office,  which  becomes  false  the 
moment  he  rests  in  it,  being  itself  for  a  higher  end  ;  if  he  has 
no  message  from  the  infinite  to  quicken  the  thoughts  that 
cleave  to  the  dust,  the  sooner  he  takes  to  grave-digging  or  any 
other  honest  labor,  the  sooner  will  he  get  into  the  kingdom  of 
heaven,  and  the  higher  will  he  stand  in  it.  But  now  came  the 
question — from  the  confluence  of  all  .these  considerations, 
"Why  should  the  church  be  for  Sundays  only  ?    And  of  all 


Mr.  Fuller  in  his  Church.  211 

places  in  the  world,  what  place  wanted  a  week-day  reminder 
of  truth,  of  honesty,  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  more  than 
London  ?  Why  should  the  churches  be  closed  all  the  week, 
to  the  exclusion  of  the  passers-by,  and  open  on  the  Sunday  to 
the  weariness  of  those  who  entered  ?  Might  there  not  be  too 
much  of  a  good  thing  on  the  Sunday,  and  too  little  of  it  on  a 
week-day?"  Again  Mr.  Fuller  said  to  himself,  "What  is  a 
parson  ?  "  and  once  more  he  answered  himself,  that  he  was  a 
man  to  keep  the  windows  of  heaven  clean,  that  its  light  might 
shine  through  upon  men  below.  What  use,  then,  once  more, 
could  he  make  of  the  church  of  St.  Amos  ? 

And  again,  why  should  the  use  of  any  church  be  limited  to 
the  Sunday  ?  Men  needed  religious  help  a  great  deal  more 
on  the  week-day  than  on  the  Sunday.  On  the  Sunday,  sur- 
rounded by  his  family,  his  flowers,  his  tame  animais,  his 
friends,  a  man  necessarily,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  thinks  less  of 
making  great  gains,  is  more  inclined  to  the  family  view  of 
things  generally  ;  whereas,  upon  the  week-day,  he  is  in  the 
midst  of  the  struggle  and  fight ;  it  is  catch  who  can,  then, 
through  all  the  holes  and  corners,  highways  and  lanes  of  the 
busy  city  :  what  would  it  not  be  then  if  he  could  strike  a  five 
minutes' — yea,  even  a  one  minute's — silence  into  the  heart  of 
the  uproar  ?  if  he  could  entice  one  vessel  to  sail  from  the 
troubled  sea  of  the  streets,  shops,  counting-houses,  into  the 
quiet  haven  of  the  church,  the  doors  of  whose  harbor  stood 
ever  open  ?  There  the  wind  of  the  world  would  be  quiet  be- 
hind them..  His  heart  swelled  within  him  as  he  thought  of 
sitting  there  keeping  open  door  of  refuge  for  the  storm-tossed, 
the  noise-deafened,  the  crushed,  the  hopeless.  He  would  not 
trouble  them  with  many  words.  There  should  be  no  long  prayers. 
"  But,"  thought  he,  "  as  often  as  one  came  in,  I  would  read 
the  collect  for  the  day  ;  I  would  soothe  him  with  comfort  out 
of  Handel  or  Mendelssohn,  I  would  speak  words  of  healing  for 
the  space  of  three  minutes.  I  would  sit  at  the  receipt  of  such 
custom.  I  would  fish  for  men — not  to  make  churchmen  of 
them — not  to  get  them  under  my  thumb  " — (for  Mr.  Fuller 
used  such  homely  phrases  sometimes  that  certain  fledgling 
divines  feared  he  was  vulgar) — "  not  to  get  them  under  the 
Church's  thumb,  but  to  get  them  out  of  the  hold  of  the  devil, 
to  lead  them  into  the  presence  of  Him  who  is  the  Truth,  and 
so  can  make  them  free." 

Therefore  he  said  to  himself  that  his  church,  instead  of 
accumulating  a  weary  length  of  service  on  one  day,  should  be 
open  every  day,  and  that  there  he  would  be  ready  for  any  soul 


212  Guild  Court 

upon  which  a  flash  of  silence  had  burst  through  the  clouds 
that  ever  rise  from  the  city  life  and  enyelop  those  that  have 
their  walk  therein. 

It  was  not  long  before  his  cogitations  came  to  the  point  of 
action  ;  for  with  men  of  Mr.  Fuller's  kind  all  their  meditations 
have  action  for  their  result :  he  opened  his  church — set  the 
door  to  the  wall,  and  got  a  youth  to  whom  he  had  been  of 
service,  and  who  was  an  enthusiast  in  music,  to  play  about 
one  o'clock,  when  those  who  dined  in  the  city  began  to  go  in 
search  of  their  food,  such  music  as  might  possibly  waken  the 
desire  to  see  what  was  going  on  in  the  church.  For  he  said  to 
himself  that  the  bell  was  of  no  use  now,  for  no  one  would  heed 
it ;  but  that  the  organ  might  fulfill  the  spirit  of  the  direction 
that  "the  curate  that  ministereth  in  every  parish  church  shall 
say  the  morning  and  evening  prayer — where  he  ministereth, 
and  shall  cause  a  bell  to  be  tolled  thereunto  a  convenient  time 
before  he  begins,  that  the  people  may  come  to  hear  God's 
word  and  to  pray  with  him." 

Over  the  crowded  street,  over  the  roar  of  omnibuses,  carts, 
wagons,  cabs,  and  all  kinds  of  noises,  rose  the  ordered  sounds 
of  consort.  Day  after  day,  day  after  day,  arose  the  sounds  of 
hope  and  prayer ;  and  not  a  soul  in  the  streets  around  took 
notice  of  the  same.  Why  should  they  ?  The  clergy  had  lost; 
their  hold  of  them.  They  believed  that  the  clergy  were  given 
to  gain  and  pleasure  just  -  as  much  as  they  were  themselves. 
Those  even  of  the  passers-by  who  were  ready  to  acknowledge 
worth  where  they  saw  it,  were  yet  not  ready  to  acknowledge 
the  probability  of  finding  it  in  the  priesthood  ;  for  their  expe- 
rience, and  possibly  some  of  their  prejudices,  were  against  it. 
They  were  wrong  ;  but  who  was  to  blame  for  it  ?  The  clergy 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  because  so  many  of  them  were 
neither  Christians  nor  gentlemen  ;  and  the  clergy  of  the  pres- 
ent century,  because  so  many  of  them  are  nothing  but  gentle- 
men— men  ignorant  of  life,  ignorant  of  human  needs,  ignorant 
of  human  temptations,  yea,  ignorant  of  human  aspirations ; 
because  in  the  city  pulpits  their  voice  is  not  uplifted  against 
city  vices  —  against  speculation,  against  falsehood,  against 
money-loving,  against  dishonesty,  against  selfishness ;  because 
elsewhere  their  voices  are  not  uplifted  against  the  worship  of 
money  and  rank  and  equipage ;  against  false  shows  in  dress 
and  economy ;  against  buying  and  not  paying ;  against  envy 
and  emulation  ;  against  effeminacy  and  mannishness  ;  against 
a  morality  which  consists  in  discretion.  Oh  !  for  the  voice  of 
a  St.  Paul  or  a  St.  John  !    But  it  would  be  of  little  use  : 


Mr.  Fuller  in  his  Church.  213 

such  men  would  have  small  chance  of  being  heard.  They 
would  find  the  one-half  of  Christendom  so  intent  upon  saving 
souls  instead  of  doing  its  duty,  that  the  other  half  thought  it 
all  humbug.  The  organ  sounded  on  from  day  to  day,  and  no 
one  heeded. 

But  Mr.  Fuller  had  the  support  of  knowing  that  there  were 
clergymen  east  and  west  who  felt  with  him  ;  men  who,  how- 
ever much  he  might  differ  from  them  in  the  details  of  belief, 
yet  worshiped  the  Lord  Christ,  and  believed  him  to  be  the 
King  of  men,  and  the  Saviour  of  men  whose  sins  were  of  the 
same  sort  as  their  own,  though  they  had  learned  them  in  the 
slums,  and  not  at  Oxford  or  Cambridge.  He  knew  that  there 
were  greater  men,  and  better  workers  than  himself,  among  the 
London  clergy ;  and  he  knew  that  he  must  work  like  them, 
after  his  own  measure  and  fashion,  and  not  follow  the  multi- 
tude. And  the  organ  went  on  playing — I  had  written  pray- 
ing— for  I  was  thinking  of  what  our  Lord  said,  that  men 
ought  always  to  pray,  and  not  to  faint. 

At  last  one  day,  about  a  quarter  past  one  o'clock,  a  man 
came  into  the  church.  Mr.  Fuller,  who  sat  in  the  reading- 
desk,  listening  to  the  music  and  praying  to  God,  lifted  up  his 
eyes  and  saw  Mr.  Kitely. 

The  bookseller  had  been  passing,  and,  having  heard  the 
organ,  thought  he  would  just  look  in  and  see  what  was  doing 
in  the  church.  For  this  church  was  a  sort  of  link  between 
him  and  his  daughter  now  that  she  was  away. 

The  moment  he  entered  Mr.  Fuller  rose,  and  knelt,  and 
began  to  read  the  collect  for  the  day,  -in  order  that  Mr.  Kitely 
might  pray  with  him.  As  soon  as  his  voice  arose  the  organ, 
which  was  then  playing  very  softly,  ceased  ;  Mr.  Kitely  knelt, 
partly,  it  must  be  allowed,  out  of  regard  for  Mr.  Fuller ;  the 
organist  came  down  and  knelt  beside  him ;  and  Mr.  Fuller 
went  on  with  the  second  and  third  collects.  After  this  he 
read  the  Epistle  and  the  Gospel  for  the  foregoing  Sunday,  and 
then  he  opened  his  mouth  and  spoke — for  not  more  than  three 
minutes,  and  only  to  enforce  the  lesson.  Then  he  kneeled 
and  let  his  congregation  depart  with  a  blessing.  Mr.  Kitely 
rose  and  left  the  chapel,  and  the  organist  went  back  to  his 
organ. 

Now  all  this  was  out  of  order.  But  was  it  as  much  out  of 
order  as  the  omission  of  prayer  altogether,  which  the  Church 
enjoins  shall  be  daily  ?  Times  had  changed  :  with  them  the 
order  of  prayer  might  possibly  be  changed  without  offense. 
At  least  Mr.  Fuller  was  not  such  a  slave  to  the  letter  as  to 


214  Guild  Court. 

believe  that  not  to  pray  at  all  was  better  than  to  alter  the  form 
by  choice  of  parts.  And  although  in  the  use  of  prayers  the 
Church  had  made  great  changes  upon  what  had  been  first 
instituted,  he  did  not  care  to  leave  present  custom  for  the 
sake  merely  of  reverting  to  that  which  was  older.  He  had  no 
hope  of  getting  business  men  to  join  in  a  full  morning  service — 
even  such  as  it  was  at  first — upon  any  week-day. 

Mr.  Kitely  dropped  in  again  before  long,  and  again  Mr. 
Fuller  read  the  collect  and  went  through  the  same  form  of 
worship.  Thus  he  did  every  time  any  one  appeared  in  the 
church,  which  was  very  seldom  for  the  first  month  or  so.  But 
he  had  some  friends  scattered  about  the  city,  and  when  they 
knew  of  his  custom  they  would  think  of  it  as  they  passed  his 
church,  until  at  length  there  were  very  few  days  indeed  upon 
which  two  or  three  persons  did  not  drop  in  and  join  in  the 
collects,  Epistle,  and  G-ospel.  To  these  he  always  spoke  for  a 
few  minutes,  and  then  dismissed  them  with  the  blessing. 


CHAPTEE  XXXI. 

A   DEEAET   ONE. 

"  Couldn't  you  get  a  holiday  on  Saturday,  Tom  ? "  said 
Mr.  Worboise.  "  I  mean  to  have  one,  and  I  should  like  to 
take  you  with  me." 

"I  don't  know,  father,"  answered  Tom,  who  did  not  regard 
the  proposal  as  involving  any  great  probability  of  enjoyment ; 
"  my  holiday  is  coming  so  soon  that  I  should  not  like  to  ask 
for  it,  especially  as  Mr.  Stoj)per — " 

"What  about  Mr.  Stopper?  Not  over  friendly,  eh?  He 
is  not  a  bad  fellow,  though,  is  Stopper.  I'll  ask  for  you,  if 
you  like  that  better." 

"  I  would  much  rather  you  wouldn't,  father." 

"Pooh,  pooh  !  nonsense,  man  !  It's  quite  a  different  thing 
if  I  ask  for  it,  you  know." 

Thomas  made  no  further  objection,  for  he  had  nothing  at 
hand  upon  which  to  ground  a  fresh  one ;  nor,  indeed,  could 
he  well  have  persisted  in  opposing  what  seemed  a  "kind  wish  of 
his  father.  It  was  not,  however,  merely  because  they  had 
little  to  talk  about,  and  that  Thomas  always  felt  a  considerable 


A  Dreary  One.  215 

restraint  in  his  father's  presence — a  feeling  not  very  uncom- 
mon to  young  men — but  he  lived  in  constant  dread  of  some- 
thing coming  to  light  about  Lucy.  He  feared  his  father  much 
more  than  he  loved  him  ;  not  that  he  had  ever  been  hardly 
treated  by  him  ;  not  that  he  had  ever  even  seen  him  in  a  pas- 
sion, for  Mr.  Worboise  had  a  very  fair  command  of  his  tem- 
per ;  it  was  the  hardness  and  inflexibility  read  upon  his  face 
from  earliest  childhood,  that  caused  fear  thus  to  overlay  love. 
If  a  father  finds  that  from  any  cause  such  is  the  case,  he  ought 
at  once  to  change  his  system,  and  to  require  very  little  of  any 
sort  from  his  child  till  a  new  crop  has  begun  to  appear  on  the 
ill-farmed  ground  of  that  child's  heart. 

Now  the  meaning  of  the  holiday  was  this  :  Mr.  Worboise 
had  a  city-client — a  carpet-knight — by  name  Sir  Jonathan 
Hubbard,  a  decent  man,  as  the  Scotch  would  say  ;  jolly,  com- 
panionable, with  a  husky  laugh,  and  frienaly  unfinished  coun- 
tenance in  which  the  color  was  of  more  weight  than  the 
drawing — for,  to  quote  Chaucer  of  the  Franklin,  "  a  better 
envined  man,"  either  in  regard  of  body  or  cellar,  "  was  no- 
where none ; "  upon  Sir  Jonathan's  sociability  Mr.  Worboise 
had  founded  the  scheme  of  the  holiday.  Not  that  he 
intended  to  risk  any  intrusion — Mr.  Worboise  was  far  too 
knowing  a  man  for  that.  The  fact  was  that  he  had  appointed 
to  wait  upon  his  client  at  his  house  near  Bickley  on  that  day 
— at  such  an  hour,  however,  as  would  afford  cover  to  his  pre- 
tense of  having  brought  his  son  out  with  him  for  a  holiday  in 
the  country.  It  was  most  probable  that  Sir  Jonathan  would 
invite  them  to  stay  to  dinner,  and  so  to  spend  their  holiday  with 
him.  There  was  no  Lady  Hubbard  alive,  but  there  was  a  Miss 
Hubbard  at  the  head  of  the  house  ;  and  hence  Mr.  Worboise's 
strategy.  Nor  had  he  reckoned  without  his  host,  for  if  Sir 
Jonathan  was  anything  he  was  hospitable  ;  things  fell  out  as 
the  lawyer  had  forehoped,  if  not  foreseen.  Sir  Jonathan  was 
pleased  with  the  young  fellow,  would  not  allow  him  to  wait 
companionless  in  the  drawing-room  till  business  was  over — 
sent,  on  the  contrary,  for  his  daughter,  and  insisted  on  the 
two  staying  to  dinner.  He  was  one  of  those  eaters  and  drink- 
ers who  have  the  redeeming  merit  of  enjoying  good  things  a 
great  deal  more  in  good  company.  Sir  Jonathan's  best  port 
would  seem  to  him  to  have  something  the  matter  with  it  if  he 
had  no  one  to  share  it.  If,  however,  it  had  come  to  the  ques- 
tion of  a  half-bottle  or  no  companion,  I  would  not  answer  for 
Sir  Jonathan.     But  his  cellar  would  stand  a  heavy  siege. 

Thomas  was  seated  in  the  drawing-room,  which  looked  cold 


216  Guild  Court. 

and  rather  cheerless  ;  for  no  company  was  expected,  and  I 
presume  Miss  Hubbard  did  not  care  for  color,  save  as  reflected 
from  her  guests,  seeing  she  had  all  her  furniture  in  pinafores. 
How  little  some  rich  people  know  how  to  inherit  the  earth  ! 
The  good  things  of  it  they  only  uncover  when  they  can  make, 
not  receive,  a  show. 

My  dear  reader — No,  I  will  not  take  a  liberty  to  which  I 
have  no  right ;  for  perhaps  were  he  to  see  me  he  would  not  like 
me,  and  possibly  were  I  to  meet  him  I  should  not  like  him  :  I 
will  rather  say  My  Reader,  without  the  impertinence  or  the 
pledge  of  an  adjective — have  a  little  patience  while  I  paint 
Miss  Hubbard  just  with  the  feather-end  of  my  pen.  I  shall 
not  be  long  about  it. 

Thomas  sat  in  the  drawing-room,  I  say,  feeling  vacant,  for 
he  was  only  waiting,  not  expecting,  when  the  door  opened, 
and  in  came  a  fashionable  girl — rather  tall,  handsome,  bright- 
eyed,  well-dressed,  and  yet— What  was  it  that  Thomas  did  not 
like  about  her  ?  Was  it  that  she  was  dressed  in  the  extreme 
of  the  fashion  ?  I  will  not  go  on  to  say  what  the  fashion  was, 
for  before  I  had  finished  writing  it,  it  would  have  ceased  to 
be  the  fashion  ;  and  I  will  not  paint  my  picture  knowingly 
with  colors  that  must  fade  the  moment  they  are  laid  on.  To 
be  sure  she  had  ridden  the  fashion  till  it  was  only  fit  for  the 
knacker's  yard  ;  but  she  soon  made  him  forget  that,  for  she 
was  clever,  pleasant,  fast— which  means  affectedly  unrefined, 
only  her  affectation  did  no  violence  to  fact — and  altogether 
amusing.  1  believe  what  Thomas  did  not  like  about  her  at 
first  was  just  all  wherein  she  differed  from  Lucy.  Yet  he 
could  not  help  being  taken  with  her  ;  and  when  his  father 
and  Sir  Jonathan  came  into  the  room,  the  two  were  talking 
like  a  sewing-machine. 

"Laura,  my  dear,"  said  the  knight,  "I  have  prevailed  on 
Mr.  Worboise  to  spend  the  day  with  us.  You  have  no  en- 
gagement, I  believe  ?" 

"Fortunately,  I  have  not,  papa." 

1 '  Well,  I'll  just  give  orders  about  dinner,  and  then  I'll  take 
our  friends  about  the  place.  I  want  to  show  them  my  new 
stable.    You  had  better  come  with  us." 

Sir  Jonathan  always  ordered  the  dinner  himself.  He 
thought  no  woman  was  capable  of  that  department  of  the 
household  economy.  Laura  put  on  her  hat — beautiful  with  a 
whole  king-fisher — and  they  went  out  into  the  grounds  to  the 
stable — trim  as  her  drawing-room — where  her  favorite  horse 
ate  apples   out  of  her  pocket ;  from  the  stable   to  the  hot' 


A  Dreary   One.  217 

houses  and  kitchen-garden  ;  then  out  at  a  back  door  into  the 
lane — shadowy  with  trees — in  which  other  colors  than  green 
were  now  very  near  carrying  the  vote  of  the  leaves.  Sweet 
scents  of  decay  filled  the  air,  waved  about,  swelling  and  sink- 
ing, on  the  flow  of  a  west  wind,  gentle  and  soft,  as  if  it  had 
been  fanned  from  the  wings  of  spring  when  nearest  to  sum- 
mer. Great  white  clouds  in  a  brilliant  sky  tempered  the  heat 
of  the  sun.  What  with  the  pure  air,  the  fine  light,  and  the 
handsome  girl  by  his  side,  Thomas  was  in  a  gayer  mood  than 
had  been  his  for  many  a  long  day.  Miss  Hubbard  talked 
plenteously — about  balls  and  theatres  and  Mansion  House  din- 
ners, about  Eotten  Bow,  and  St.  James's  ;  and  although  of  all 
these  Thomas  knew  very  little,  yet  being  quick  and  sympa- 
thetic, he  was  able  to  satisfy  the  lady  sufficiently  to  keep  her 
going.  He  was  fortunate  enough,  besides,  to  say  one  or  two 
clever  things  with  which  she  was  pleased,  and  to  make  an 
excellent  point  once  in  a  criticism  upon  a  girl  they  both  knew, 
which,  slighting  her,  conveyed,  by  no  very  occult  implication, 
a  compliment  to  Miss  Hubbard.  By  the  time  they  had  reached 
this  stage  of  acquaintanceship,  they  had  left  stout  Sir  Jona- 
than and  Mr.  Worboise  far  behind  ;  but  Miss  Hubbard  was  not 
in  the  least  danger. of  being  made  uncomfortable  by  any 
squeamish  notions  of  propriety ;  and,  having  nothing  more 
amusing  to  do,  and  being  out  already,  she  proposed  that  they 
should  go  home  by  a  rather  longer  road,  which  would  lead  them 
over  a  hill  whence  they  would  get  a  good  view  of  the  country. 

"  Do  you  like  living  in  the  country,  Miss  Hubbard  ?" 

"  Oh  !  dear  no.  London  for  me.  I  can't  tell  what  made 
papa  come  to  this  dull  place." 

"The  scenery  is  very  lovely,  though." 

"  People  say  so.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Scenery  wasn't 
taught  where  I  went  to  school." 

"  Were  you  taught  horses  there  ?  "  asked  Thomas,  slyly. 

"No.  That  comes  by  nature.  Do  you  know  I  won  this 
bracelet  in  a  handicap  last  Derby  ? "  she  said,  showing  a  very 
fine  arm  as  well  as  bracelet,  though  it  was  only  the  morning, 
so-called. 

Miss  Hubbard  had  no  design  upon  Thomas.  How  could  she 
have  ?  She  knew  nothing  about  him.  She  would  have  done 
the  same  with  any  gentleman  she  liked  well  enough  to  chatter 
to.  And  if  Thomas  felt  it  and  thought  that  Laura  Hubbard 
was  more  entertaining  than  sober  Lucy  Burton,  he  made  up  to 
Lucy  for  it  in  his  own  idea  by  asserting  to  himself  that,  after 
all,  she  was  far  handsomer  than  Miss  Hubbard,  handsome  as 


218  Guild  Court. 

she  was.  Yet  I  should  never  think  of  calling  Lucy  handsome. 
She  was  lovely — almost  beautiful,  too.  Handsome  always  in- 
dicates more  or  less  vulgarity — no,  I  mean  commonness — in 
my  ears.  And  certainly,  whatever  she  might  be  capable  of, 
had  she  been  blessed  with  poverty,  Miss  Hubbard  was  as  com- 
mon as  she  was  handsome.  Thomas  was  fool  enough  to  revert 
to  Byron  to  try  his  luck  with  that.  She  soon  made  him 
ashamed  of  showing  any  liking  for  such  a  silly  thing  as  poetry. 
That  piqued  him  as  well,  however. 

"You  sing,  I  suppose  ?"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  yes,  when  I  can't  help  it — after  dinner,  sometimes." 

"Well,  you  sing  poetry,  don't  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  One  must  have  some  words  or  other  just 
to  make  her  open  her  mouth.  I  never  know  what  they're 
about.  Why  should  I  ?  Nobody  ever  pays  the  least  attention 
to  them — or  to  the  music  either,  except  it  be  somebody  that 
wants  to  marry  you." 

But  why  should  I  go  further  with  the  record  of  such  talk  ? 
It  is  not  interesting  to  me,  and,  therefore,  can  hardly  be  so  to 
my  reader.  Even  if  I  had  the  art  to  set  it  forth  aright,  I  hope 
I  should  yet  hold  to  my  present  belief,  that  nothing  in  which 
the  art  is  uppermost  is  worth  the  art  expended  upon 
it. 

Thomas  was  a  little  shocked  at  her  coolness,  certainly;  but 
at  the  same  time  that  very  coolness  seemed  a  challenge.  Be- 
fore they  had  reached  the  house  again,  he  was  vexed  to  find 
he  had  made  no  impression  upon  Miss  Hubbard. 

Farewell  to  such  fencing.  By  the  time  he  had  heard  her 
sing,  and  his  father  and  he  were  on  their  way  home  again,  I 
am  glad  to  say  that  Thomas  had  had  nearly  enough  of  her. 
He  thought  her  voice  loud  and  harsh  in  speech,  showy  and  dis- 
tressing in  song,  and  her  whole  being  bravura.  The  con- 
trasts in  Lucy  had  come  back  upon  him  with  a  gush  of  memo- 
rial loveliness  ;  for,  as  I  have  said,  she  still  held  the  fortress  of 
his  heart,  and  held  it  for  its  lawful  owner. 

Scarcely  were  they  seated  in  the  railway  carriage,  of  which 
they  were  the  sole  occupants,  when  the  elder  Worboise  threw  a 
shot  across  the  bows  of  the  younger. 

"Well,  Tom,  my  boy,"  he  said,  rubbing  his  lawyer  palms, 
"  how  do  you  like  Miss  Hubbard  ?  " 

"  Oh,  very  well,  father,"  answered  Thomas,  indifferently. 
"  She's  a  very  jolly  sort  of  girl." 

"  She's  worth  a  hundred  thousand,"  said  his  father,  in  a  tone 
that  would  have  been  dry  but  for  a  touch  of  slight  resentment 


A  Dreary   One.  219 

at  the  indifference,  possibly  in  the  father's  view  irreverence, 
with  which  he  spoke  of  her. 

"  Girls  ?  "  asked  Thomas. 

"  Pounds,  "answered  his  father,  clenchingly. 

Tom  was  now  convinced  of  his  father's  design  in  taking  him 
out  for  a  holiday.  But  even  now  he  shrunk  from  confession. 
And  how  did  he  justify  his  sneaking  now  ?  By  saying  to 
himself,  "  Lucy  can't  have  anything  like  that  money  ;  it  Won't 
do.  I  must  wait  a  more  fitting  opportunity."  But  he  thought 
he  was  very  brave  indeed,  and  actually  seizing  the  bull  of  his 
father's  will  by  the  horns  when  he  ventured  to  take  his  mean- 
ing for  granted,  and  replied  : 

"  Why,  father,  a  fellow  has  no  chance  with  a  girl  like  that, 
except  he  could  ride  like  Assheton  Smith,  and  knew  all  the 
slang  of  the  hunting-field  as  well  as  the  race-course." 

"  A  few  children  will  cure  her  of  that,"  said  his  father. 

"What  I  say  is,"  persisted  Thomas,  "that  she  would  never 
look  at  a  clerk." 

"  If  I  thought  you  had  any  chance,  I  would  buy  you  a  com- 
mission in  the  Blues." 

"It  wants  blue  blood  for  that,"  said  Thomas,  whose  heart, 
notwithstanding,  danced  in  his  bosom  at  the  sound  of  commis- 
sion. Then,  afraid  lest  he  should  lose  the  least  feather  of  such 
a  chance,  he  added  hastily,  "But  any  regiment  would  do." 

"  I  dare  say,"  returned  his  father,  at  right  angles.  "  When 
you  have  made  a  little  progress  it  will  be  time  enough.  She 
knows  nothing  about  what  you  are  now.  Her  father  asked  me, 
and  I  said  I  had  not  made  up  my  mind  yet  what  to  do  with 
you." 

"But,  as  I  said  before,"  resumed  Thomas,  fighting  some- 
what feebly,  "  I  haven't  a  chance  with  her.  She  likes  better 
to  talk  about  horses  than  anything  else,  and  I  never  had  my 
leg  across  a  horse's  back  in  my  life — as  you  know,  father,"  he 
added  in  a  tone  of  reproach. 

"You  mean,  Tom,  that  I  have  neglected  your  education. 
Well,  it  shall  be  so  no  longer.  You  shall  go  to  the  riding- 
school  on  Monday  night.  It  won't  be  open  to-morrow,  I  sup- 
pose." 

I  hope  my  reader  is  not  so  tired  of  this  chapter  as  I  am.  It 
is  bad  enough  to  have  to  read  such  uninteresting  things — but 
to  have  to  write  them  !  The  history  that  is  undertaken  must 
be  written,  however,  whether  the  writer  weary  sometimes  of 
his  task,  or  the  interest  of  his  labor  carry  him  lightly  through 
to  the  close. 


220  Guild  Court. 

Thomas,  wretched  creature,  dallied  with  his  father's  pro- 
posal. He  did  not  intend  accepting  it,  but  the  very  idea  of 
marrying  a  rich,  fashionable  girl  like  that,  with  a  knight  for 
a  father,  flattered  him.  Still  more  was  he  excited  at  the  no- 
tion, the  very  possibility  of  wearing  a  uniform.  And  what 
might  he  not  do  with  so  much  money  ?  Then,  when  the  thought 
of  Lucy  came,  he  soothed  his  conscience  by  saying  to  himself, 
"  See  how  much  I  must  love  her  when  I  am  giving  up  all  this  for 
her  sake  ! "  Still  his  thoughts  hovered  about  what  he  said  he 
was  giving  up.  He  went  to  bed  on  Sunday  night,  after  a  very 
pathetic  sermon  from  Mr.  Simon,  with  one  resolution,  and  one 
only,  namely,  to  go  to  the  riding-school  in  Finsbury  on  Mon- 
day night. 

But  something  very  different  was  waiting  him. 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

AN   EXPLOSION. 

The  whole  ground  under  Thomas's  feet  was  honey-combed 
and  filled  with  combustible  matter.  A  spark  dropped  from 
any,  even  a  loving  hand,  might  send  everything  in  the  air.  It 
needed  not  an  enemy  to  do  it. 

Lucy  Burton  had  been  enjoying  a  delightful  season  of  re- 
pose by  the  sea-side.  She  had  just  enough  to  do  with  and  for 
the  two  children  to  gain  healthy  distraction  to  her  thinking. 
But  her  thinking  as  well  as  her  bodily  condition  grew  health- 
ier every  day  that  she  breathed  the  sea  air.  She  saw  more  and 
more  clearly  than  ever  that  things  must  not  go  on  between 
her  and  Thomas  as  they  were  now  going  on.  The  very  scent 
of  the  sea  that  came  in  at  her  bed-room  window  when  she  opened 
it  in  the  morning,  protested  against  it ;  the  wind  said  it  was 
no  longer  endurable ;  and  the  clear,  blue  autumn  sky  said  it 
was  a  shame  for  his  sake,  if  not  for  her  own.  She  must  not 
do  evil  that  good  might  come  ;  she  must  not  allow  Thomas  to 
go  on  thus  for  the  sake  even  of  keeping  a  hold  of  him  for  his 
good.  She  would  give  him  one  chance  more,  and  if  he  did 
not  accept  it,  she  would  not  see  him  again,  let  come  of  it  what 
would.  In  better  mood  still,  she  would  say,  "Let  God  take 
care  of  that  for  him  and  me."     She  had  not  written  to  him 


An  Explosion.  221 

since  she  came :  that  was  one  thing  she  conld  avoid.  Now, 
she  resolved  that  she  would  write  to  him  just  before  her  re- 
turn, and  tell  him  that  the  first  thing  she  would  say  to  him 
when  she  saw  him  would  be — had  he  told  his  father  ?  and 
upon  his  answer  depended  their  future.  But  then  the  ques- 
tion arose,  what  address  she  was  to  put  upon  the  letter ;  for 
she  was  not  willing  to  write  either  to  his  home  or  to  the  count- 
ing-house for  evident  reasons.  Nor  had  she  come  to  any  con- 
clusion, and  had  indeed  resolved  to  encounter  him  once  more 
without  having  written,  when  from  something  rather  inco- 
herently expressed  in  her  grandmother's  last  letter,  which  in- 
deed referred  to  an  expected  absence  of  Mr.  Stopper,  who  was 
now  the  old  lady's  main  support,  she  concluded,  hastily,  I 
allow,  that  Mr.  Worboise  was  from  home,  and  that  she  might 
without  danger  direct  a  letter  to  Highbury. 

Through  some  official  at  the  Court  of  Probate,  I  fancy  that 
Mr.  Worboise  had  heard  of  a  caveat  having  been  entered  with 
reference  to  the  will  of  Mr.  Bichard  Boxall,  deceased.  I  do 
not  know  that  this  was  the  case,  but  I  think  something  must 
have  occurred  to  irritate  him  against  those  whom  he,  with  the 
law  on  his  side,  was  so  sorely  tempted  to  wrong.  I  know  that 
the  very  contemplation  of  wrong  is  sufficient  to  irritate,  and 
that  very  grievously,  against  one  thus  contemplated ;  but  Lucy 
would  have  been  a  very  good  match,  though  not  equal  to  Miss 
Hubbard,  even  in  Mr.  Worboise's  eyes.  On  the  other  hand, 
however,  if  he  could  but  make  up,  not  his  mind,  but  his  con- 
science, to  take  Boxall's  money,  he  would  be  so  much  the  more 
likely  to  secure  Miss  Hubbard's  ;  which,  together  with  what  he 
could  leave  him,  would  make  a  fortune  over  two  hundred  thou- 
sand— sufficient  to  make  his  son  somebody.  If  Thomas  had 
only  spoken  in  time,  that  is,  while  his  father's  conscience  still 
spoke,  and  before  he  had  cast  eyes  of  ambition  toward  Sir 
Jonathan's  bankers  !  All  that  was  wanted  on  the  devil's  side 
now  was  some  personal  quarrel  with  the  rightful  heirs ;  and 
if  Mr.  Worboise  did  not  secure  that  by  means  of  Mr.  Sargent's 
caveat,  he  must  have  got  it  from  what  had  happened  on  the 
Monday  morning.  Before  Thomas  came  down  to  breakfast, 
the  postman  had  delivered  a  letter  addressed  to  him,  with  the 
Hastings  postmark  upon  it. 

When  Thomas  entered,  and  had  taken  his  seat,  on  the  heels 
of  the  usual  cool  Good-morning,  his  father  tossed  the  letter  to 
him  across  the  table,  saying,  more  carelessly  than  he  felt : 

"Who's  your  Hastings  correspondent,  Tom  ?" 

The  question,  coming  with  the  sight  of  Lucy's  handwriting, 


222  Guild  Court 

made  the  eloquent  blood  surge  into  Tom's  face.  His  father 
was  not  in  the  way  of  missing  anything  that  there  was  to  see, 
and  he  saw  Tom's  face. 

"A  friend  of  mine/'  stammered  Tom.  "Gone  down  for  a 
holiday." 

"One  of  your  fellow-clerks?"  asked  his  father,  with  a 
dry  significance  that  indicated  the  possible  neighborhood  of 
annoyance,  or  worse.  "I  thought  the  writing  of  doubtful 
gender. " 

For  Lucy's  writing  was  not  in  the  style  of  a  field  of  corn  in 
a  hurricane  :  it  had  a  few  mistakable  curves  about  it,  though 
to  the  experienced  eye  it  was  nothing  the  less  feminine  that  it 
did  not  affect  feminity. 

"No,"  faltered  Tom,  "he's  not  a  clerk ;  he's  a— well,  he's 
a — teacher  of  music." 

"Hm  !"  remarked  Mr.  Worboise.  "How  did  you  come  to 
make  his  acquaintance,  Tom  ?"  And  he  looked  at  his  son 
with  awful  eyes,  lighted  from  behind  with  growing  suspicion. 

Tom  felt  his  jaws  growing  paralyzed.  His  mouth  was  as  dry 
as  his  hand,  and.  it  seemed  as  if  his  tongue  would  rattle  in  it 
like  the  clapper  of  a  cracked  bell  if  he  tried  to  speak.  But  he 
had  nothing  to  say.  A  strange  tremor  went  through  him  from 
top  to  toe,  making  him  conscious  of  every  inch  of  his  body  at 
the  very  moment  when  his  embarrassment  might  have  been  ex- 
pected to  make  him  forget  it  altogether.  His  father  kept  his 
eyes  fixed  on  him,  and  Tom's  perturbation  increased  every 
moment. 

"  I  think,  Tom,  the  best  way  out  of  your  evident  confusion 
will  be  to  hand  me  over  that  letter,"  said  his  father,  in  a  cool, 
determined  tone,  at  the  same  time  holding  out  his  hand  to  re- 
ceive it. 

Tom  had  strength  to  obey  only  because  he  had  not  strength 
to  resist.  But  he  rose  from  his  seat,  and  would  have  left  the 
room. 

"  Sit  down,  sir,"  said  Mr.  "Worboise,  in  a  voice  that  revealed 
growing  anger,  though  he  could  not  yet  have  turned  over  the 
leaf  to  see  the  signature.  In  fact,  he  was  more  annoyed  at  his 
son's  pusillanimity  than  at  his  attempted  deception.  "  You 
make  a  soldier  !  "  he  added,  in  a  tone  of  contempt  that  stung 
Tom — not  to  the  heart,  but  to  the  backbone.  When  he  had 
turned  the  leaf  and  saw  the  signature,  he  rose  slowly  from  his 
chair  and  walked  to  the  window,  folding  the  letter  as  he  went. 
After  communing  with  the  garden  for  awhile,  he  turned 
again  to  the  table  and  sat  down.     It  was  not  Mr.  Worboise's 


An  Explosion.  223 

way  to  go  into  a  passion  when  he  had  anything  like  reasonable 
warning  that  his  temper  was  in  danger. 

"  Tom,  you  have  been  behaving  like  a  fool.  Thank  heaven, 
it's  not  too  late  !  How  could  you  be  such  a  fool  ?  Believe  me, 
it's  not  a  safe  amusement  to  go  trifling  with  girls  this  way." 

With  a  great  effort,  a  little  encouraged  by  the  quietness  of 
his  father's  manner,  Tom  managed  to  say,  "  I  wasn't  trifling." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  said  his  father,  with  more  stern- 
ness than  Tom  had  ever  known  him  assume — "do  you  mean 
to  tell  me,"  he  repeated,  "  that  you  have  come  under  any 
obligation  to  this  girl  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have,  father." 

"  You  fool  !    A  dress-maker  is  no  fit  match  for  you." 

"  She's  not  a  dress-maker,"  said  Tom,  with  some  energy,  for 
he  was  beginning  to  grow  angry,  and  that  alone  could  give  a 
nature  like  his  courage  in  such  circumstances  ;  "she's  a  lady, 
if  ever  there  was  one." 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense  !  "  said  his  father.  "  Don't  get  on 
your  high  horse  with  me.  She's  a  beggar,  if  ever  there  was 
one. " 

Tom  smiled  unbelievingly,  or  tried  to  smile  ;  for  now  his 
tremor,  under  the  influence  of  his  wholesome  anger,  had 
abated,  and  his  breath  began  to  come  and  go  more  naturally. 
A  little  more,  and  he  would  feel  himself  a  hero,  stoutly  de- 
fending his  lady-love,  fearless  of  consequences  to  himself.  But 
he  said  nothing  more  just  yet. 

"  You  know  better  than  I  do,  you  think,  you  puppy  !  I  tell 
you  she's  not  worth  a  penny — no,  nor  her  old  witch  of  a  grand- 
mother, either.  A  pretty  mess  you've  made  of  it !  You  just 
sit  down  and  tell  the  poor  girl — it's  really  too  bad  of  you, 
Tom  ! — that  you're  sorry  you've  been  such  a  confounded  fool, 
but  there's  no  help  for  it." 

"  Why  should  I  say  that  ?  " 

"  Because  it's  true.  By  all  that's  sacred  !  "  said  Mr.  Wor- 
boise,  with  solemn  fierceness,  "you  give  up  that  girl,  or  you 
give  up  me.  Not  that  your  father  is  anything  to  you  :  but  I. 
swear,  if  you  carry  on  with  that  girl,  you  shall  not  cross  my 
door  as  long  as  you  do  ;  and  not  a  penny  you  shall  have  out  of 
my  pocket.  You'll  have  to  live  on  your  salary,  my  fine  fellow, 
and  perhaps  that'll  bring  down  your  proud  stomach  a  bit.  By 
Jove  !  You  may  starve  for  me.  Come,  my  boy,"  he  added 
with  sudden  gentleness,  "don't  be  a  fool." 

Whether  Mr.  Worboise  meant  all  he  said,  I  cannot  tell,  but 
at  least  he  meant  Thomas  to  believe  that  he  did.   And  Thomas 


224:  Guild  Court 

did  believe  it.  All  the  terrible  contrast  between  a  miserable 
clerkship,  with  lodging  as  well  as  food  to  be  provided,  and  a 
commission  in  the  army  with  unlimited  pocket-money,  and  the 
very  name  of  business  forgotten,  rose  before  him.  A  conflict 
began  within  him  which  sent  all  the  blood  to  the  surface  of  his 
body,  and  made  him  as  hot  now  as  he  had  been  cold  just  be- 
fore. He  again  rose  from  his  seat,  and  this  time  his  father, 
who  saw  that  he  had  aimed  well,  did  not  prevent  him  from 
leaving  the  room.  He  only  added  as  his  son  reached  the  door, 
"  Mark  what  I  say,  Tom  :  i"  mean  it;  and  when  I  mean  a 
thing,  it's  not  my  fault  if  it's  not  done.  You  can  go  to  the 
riding-school  to-night,  or  you  can  look  out  for  a  lodging  suit- 
able to  your  means.     I  should  recommend  Wapping." 

Thomas  stood  on  the  heel  of  one  foot  and  the  toes  of  the 
other,  holding  the  handle  of  the  door  in  his  hand  till  his 
father  had  done  speaking.  He  then  left  the  room,  without 
reply,  closed  the  door  behind  him,  took  his  hat  and  went  out. 
He  was  half  way  to  London  before  he  remembered  that  he  had 
left  Lucy's  letter  in  his  father's  hands  and  had  not  even  read 
it.  This  crowned  his.  misery.  He  dared  not  go  back  for  it  ; 
but  the  thought  of  Lucy's  words  to  him  being  at  the  mercy  of 
his  hard-hearted  father  moved  him  so,  that  he  almost  made 
up  his  mind  never  to  enter  the  house  again.  And  then  how 
Liicy  must  love  him  when  he  had  given  up  everything  for  her 
sake,  knowing  quite  well,  too,  that  she  was  not  going  to  have 
any  fortune  after  all  ?  But  he  did  not  make  up  his  mind  ;  he 
never  had  made  up  his  mind  yet ;  or,  if  he  had,  he  unmade  it 
again  upon  meeting  with  the  least  difficulty.  And  now  his 
whole  "  state  of  man "  was  in  confusion.  He  went  into  the 
counting-house  as  if  he  had  been  walking  in  a  dream,  sat  down 
to  his  desk  mechanically,  droned  through  the  forenoon,  had 
actually  only  a  small  appetite  for  his  dinner,  and  when  six 
o'clock  arrived,  and  the  place  was  closed,  knew  no  more 
what  he  was  going  to  do  than  when  he  started  out  in  the 
morning. 

But  he  neither  went  to  the  riding-school  in  Finsbury,  nor  to 
look  for  a  lodging  in  "Wapping. 


Down  at  Last.  225 

CHAPTEE   XXXIII.  ' 

DOWN  AT  LAST. 

In"  the  very  absence  of  purpose,  he  strolled  up  Guild  Court 
to  call  upon  Molken,  who  was  always  at  home  at  that  hour. 

Molken  welcomed  him  even  more  heartily  than  usual.  After 
a  few  minutes'  conversation  they  went  out  together  :  having 
no  plan  of  his  own,  Thomas  was  in  the  hands  of  any  one  who 
had  a  plan  of  which  he  formed  a  part.  They  betook  them- 
selves to  one  of  their  usual  haunts.  It  was  too  early  yet  for 
play,  so  they  called  for  some  refreshment,  and  Thomas  drank 
more  than  he  had  ever  drunk  before,  not  with  any  definite 
idea  of  drowning  the  trouble  in  his  mind,  but  sipping  and 
sipping  from  mere  restlessness  and  the  fluttering  motion  of  a 
will  unable  to  act. 

It  was  a  cold  evening.  An  autumn  wind  which  had  dropped 
in  its  way  all  the  now  mournful  memories  of  nature,  and  was 
itself  the  more  dreary  therefore,  tumbled  a  stray  billow  now 
and  then  through  the  eddies  of  its  chimney-rocks  and  house- 
top-shoals upon  the  dirty  window  of  the  little  dreary  den  in 
which  they  sat,  drinking  their  gin  and  water  at  a  degraded 
card-table  whose  inlaid  borders  were  not  yet  quite  obscured  by 
the  filth  caked  upon  it  from  greasy  fingers  and  dusters  dirtier 
than  the  smoke  they  would  remove.  They  talked — not  about 
gaming — no  :  they  talked  about  politics  and  poetry ;  about 
Goethe  and  Heine ;  and  Molken  exerted  all  his  wit  and  sym- 
pathy to  make  himself  agreeable  to  his  dejected  friend,  urging 
him  to  rise  above  his  dejection  by  an  effort  of  the  will ;  using, 
in  fact,  much  the  same  arguments  as  Lady  Macbeth  when  she 
tried  to  persuade  her  husband  that  the  whole  significance  of 
things  depended  on  how  he  chose  to  regard  them  :  "  These 
things  must  not  be  thought  after  these  ways."  Thomas,  how- 
ever, had  not  made  a  confidant  of  Molken.  He  had  only 
dropped  many  words  that  a  man  like  him  would  not  fail  to 
piece  together  into  some  theory  regarding  the  condition  and. 
circumstances  of  one  of  whom  he  meant  to  make  gain. 

At  length,  what  between  Molken's  talk  and  the  gin,  a  flame 
of  excitement  began  to  appear  in  Thomas's  weary  existence ; 
and  almost  at  the  same  instant  a  sound  of  voices  and  footsteps 
was  heard  below ;  they  came  up  the  stair ;  the  door  of  the 
room  opened ;  and  several  fellows  entered,  all  eager  for  the 
excitement  of  play  as  a  drunkard  for  his  drink,  all  talking, 
15 


226  Guild  Court. 

laughing,  chaffing.  A  blast  of  wind  laden  with  rain  from  a 
laboring  cloud  which  had  crept  up  from  the  west  and  dark- 
ened the  place,  smote  on  the  windows,  and  soft  yet  keen  the 
drops  pattered  on  the  glass.  All  outside  was  a  chaos  of  windy 
mist  and  falling  rain.  They  called  for  lights,  and  each  man 
ordered  his  favorite  drink  ;  the  face  of  Nature,  who  was  doing 
her  best  to  befriend  them,  was  shut  out  by  a  blind  of  green 
and  black  stripes  stained  with  yellow  ;  two  dirty  packs  of  cards 
were  produced — not  from  the  pocket  of  any  of  the  company, 
for  none  of  the  others  would  have  trusted  such  a  derivation, 
but  from  the  archives  of  the  house  ;  and,  drawing  round  the 
table,  they  began  to  offer  their  sacrifice  to  the  dreary  excite- 
ment for  whose  presence  their  souls  had  been  thirsting  all  the 
day.  Two  of  them  besides  Molken  were  foreigners,  one  of  them 
apparently  a  German,  a  very  quiet  and  rather  a  gentlemanly 
man,  between  whom  and  Molken,  however,  if  Thomas  had 
been  on  the  outlook,  he  might,  I  fancy,  have  seen  certain 
looks  of  no  good  omen  interchanged. 

They  began  playing  very  gently — and  fairly  no  doubt ;  and 
Thomas  for  some  time  went  on  winning. 

There  was  not  even  the  pretense  of  much  money  among 
them.  Probably  a  few  gold  pieces  was  the  most  any  of  them 
had.  When  one  of  them  had  made  something  at  this  sort  of 
small  private  game,  he  would  try  his  luck  at  one  of  the  more 
public  tables,  I  presume.  As  the  game  went  on  and  they 
grew  more  excited,  they  increased  their  stakes  a  little.  Still 
they  seemed  content  to  go  on  for  a  little.  Thomas  and  Mol- 
ken were  partners,  and  still  they  won.  Gradually  the  points 
were  increased,  and  betting  began.  Thomas  began  to  lose 
and  lose,  of  course,  more  rapidly  than  he  had  won.  He  had 
had  two  or  three  pounds  in  his  pocket  when  he  began,  but  all 
went  now — the  last  of  it  in  a  bet  on  the  odd  trick.  He  bor- 
rowed of  Molken — lost ;  borrowed  and  lost,  still  sipping  his 
gin  and  water,  till  Molken  declared  he  had  himself  lost  every- 
thing. Thomas  laid  his  watch  on  the  table,  for  himself  and 
Molken — it  was  not  of  great  value — a  gift  of  his  mother  only. 
He  lost  it.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  He  had  one  thing 
left — a  ring  of  some  value  which  Lucy  had  given  him  to  wear 
for  her.  It  had  belonged  to  her  mother.  He  pulled  it  off 
his  finger,  showed  that  it  was  a  rose  diamond,  and  laid  it  on 
the  table.  It  followed  the  rest.  He  rose,  caught  up  his  hat, 
and,  as  so  many  thousands  of  gamblers  have  done  before, 
rushed  out  into  the  rain  and  the  darkness. 

Through  all  the  fumes  of  the  gin  which  had  begun  to  render 


Down  at  Last.  227 

"the  receipt  of  reason  a  limbeck  only,"  the  thought  gleamed 
upon  his  cloudy  mind  that  he  ought  to  have  received  his  quar- 
ter's salary  that  very  day.  If  he  had  had  that,  what  might  he 
not  have  done  ?  It  was  his,  and  yet  he  could  not  have  it. 
His  mind  was  all  in  a  confused  despair,  ready  to  grasp  at  any- 
thing that  offered  him  a  chance  of  winning  back  what  he  had 
lost.  If  he  had  gone  home  and  told  his  father — but  he  was  not 
capable  of  reasoning  out  anything.  Lucy's  ring  was  his  chief 
misery  :  so  much  must  be  said  for  him.  Something — he  did 
not  know  what — drove  him  toward  Guild  Court.  I  believe, 
though  in  his  after  reflections  he  could  not  identify  the  im- 
pulse, that  it  was  the  same  which  he  obeyed  at  last.  Before 
he  knew  where  he  was  going,  he  was  at  Mrs.  Boxall's  door. 
He  found  it  ajar,  and  walked  up  the  stair  to  the  sitting-room. 
That  door  too  was  open,  and  there  was  no  one  there.  But  he 
saw  at  a  glance,  from  the  box  on  the  floor  and  the  shawl  on 
the  table,  that  Lucy  had  returned,  and  he  supposed  that  her 
grandmother  had  gone  up  stairs  with  her.  The  same  moment 
his  eyes  sought  the  wall,  and  there  hung  two  keys.  They 
were  the  keys  of  the  door  of  communication  and  of  the  safe. 

Mr.  Stopper,  wise  in  his  generation,  sought,  as  we  have 
seen,  to  stand  as  well  as  possible  with  the  next  of  kin  and 
supposed  heir  to  Mr.  Boxall,  namely,  his  mother.  He  had, 
therefore,  by  degrees,  made  himself  necessary  to  her,  in  her 
fancy  at  least,  by  giving  her  good  advice  till  she  thought  she 
could  not  do  without  his  wisdom.  Nor  that  alone  ;  he  had 
pleased  her  by  a  hundred  little  acknowledgments  of  her  suzer- 
ainty, especially  grateful  to  one  who  loved  power  as  Mrs.  Box- 
all  did.  Among  the  rest,  one  evening,  after  locking  up  the 
counting-house,  he  went  to  her  with  those  two  keys  in  his 
hand,  and  kept  playing  with  them  till  he  was  taking  his  leave 
— then,  as  if  a  sudden  thought  had  struck  him,  said  : 

"But  I  don't  see  the  use  of  troubling  myself  with  these 
keys.  I  may  as  well  hang  them  up  somewhere,"  he  added, 
looking  about  for  a  place. 

"I  don't  know  that  it's  wise  to  leave  them  here,"  objected 
Mrs.  Boxall. 

"Oh!  don't  be  uneasy,  ma'am,"  returned  Mr.  Stopper. 
"  You  mustn't  suppose  we  leave  a  mint  of  money  in  the  house 
at  night.  If  we  did,  you  wouldn't  be  safe  either.  It's  only 
what  comes  in  after  banking-hours — a  matter  of  ten  pounds, 
or  thereabouts,  sometimes  more,  sometimes  less.  The  safe's 
more  for  the  books — in  case  of  fire,  you  know." 

"I  hope  there's  no  danger  of  that,  Mr.  Stopper." 


228  Guild  Court 

"  Not  as  long  as  the  neighbors  don't  take  fire.  I  see  every 
spark  out  when  we  have  a  fire  before  I  turn  my  back  on  the 
premises.  Indeed,  I'm  rather  more  careful  over  the  fire  than 
the  cash-box." 

In  the  meantime  Mr.  Stopper  had  discovered  a  brass-headed 
nail  in  the  wall,  and  thereupon  he  had  hung  the  keys,  and 
there  he  had  hung  them  every  evening  since,  and  there  they 
hung  at  this  moment  when  Thomas's  eyes  went  in  search  of 
them. 

When  he  considered  the  whole  affair  afterward,  Thomas 
thought  he  must  have  been  driven  by  a  demon.  He  hardly 
knew  whether  he  was  thinking  over  or  doing  the  thing  that 
was  present  to  him.  No  thought  of  resisting  it  as  a  tempta- 
tion arose  to  meet  it.  He  knew  that  there  was  eleven  pounds 
odd  shillings  in  the  cash  box,  for  he  had  seen  one  of  the  other 
clerks  count  it ;  he  knew  that  the  cash-box  was  in  the  safe ; 
he  knew  that  that  was  the  key  of  it ;  he  knew  that  the  firm 
owed  him  twenty-five  pounds ;  he  could  replace  it  again  before 
the  morning;  and  while  thinking  all  this  he  was  "doing  the 
effect  of  his  thinking,"  almost  without  knowing  it :  he  found 
himself  standing  before  the  safe  with  the  key  already  in  the 
lock,  and  the  cold  handle  of  the  door  in  his  hand.  But  it  was 
dark  all  around  and  within  him.  In  there  alone  lay  light  and 
hope.  In  another  moment  the  door  was  open,  and  the  con- 
tents of  the  cash-box — gold,  silver,  copper — in  his  pocket.  It 
is  possible  that  even  then  he  might  have  restored  the  money  if 
he  had  not  heard  the  step  of  the  policeman  at  the  street-door. 
He  left  the  safe  open  as  it  was,  with  the  key  in  it,  and  sped 
from  the  house. 

Nothing  more  marked  itself  on  his  memory  till  he  reached 
the  room  where  he  had  left  his  friends.  It  was  dark.  There 
was  no  one  there.  They  had  gone  to  tiy  their  luck  in  a  more 
venturous  manner,  where  rogue  met  rogue,  and  fortune  was 
umpire  rather  than  cunning.  He  knew  their  haunts,  followed 
and  found  them.  But  his  watch  and  ring  were  gone.  They 
told  him,  however,  where  they  were.  He  would  go  and  seek 
them  to-morrow.  Meantime  he  would  play.  He  staked  and 
lost — lost,  won,  won  again  ;  doubled  his  stakes,  won  still ;  and 
when  he  left  the  house  it  was  with  a  hundred  pounds  in  his 
pocket  and  a  gray  dawn  of  wretchedness  in  his  heart. 


Mrs.  BoxdLl  and  Mr.  Stopper.  229 


CHAPTEE  XXXIV. 

MRS.    BOXALL   AND    MR.    STOPPEE. 

Lucy  was  not  up  stairs  with  her  grandmother  when  Thomas 
went  into  the  room.  She  had  arrived  some  time  before,  and 
had  run  across  to  the  bookseller's  to  put  Mattie  to  bed,  accord- 
ing to  promise,  leaving  the  door  just  ajar  that  she  might  not 
trouble  her  grandmother  to  come  down  and  open  it  for  her. 
She  had  come  home  hoping  against  hope  that  Thomas  must 
by  this  time  have  complied,  in  some  way  or  other,  with  her 
request — must  have  written  to  his  father,  or,  at  least,  so  posi- 
tively made  up  his  mind  to  tell  him  on  his  return,  that  he 
would  be  at  the  station  to  meet  her  with  the  assurance,  or 
would  appear  in  Guild  Court  some  time  during  the  evening 
with  a  response  to  her  earnest  appeal.  When  she  had  put  the 
child  to  bed,  she  lingered  a  few  moments  with  the  bookseller 
in  his  back  parlor,  for  the  shop  was  shut  up,  telling  him  about 
Mattie,  and  listening  to  what  little  bits  of  news  the  worthy 
man  had  to  impart  in  return.  Their  little  chat  ran  something 
in  this  way : 

"And  how  have  you  been,  Mr.  Kitely  ?" 

"  Oh,  among  the  middlins,  miss,  thank  you.  How's  your- 
self been  ?  " 

"Quite  well,  and  no  wonder." 

"I  don't  know  that,  miss,  with  two  young  things  a  pullin' 
of  you  all  ways  at  once.  I  hope  Mattie  wasn't  over  and  above 
troublesome  to  you." 

"  She  was  no  trouble  at  all.  You  must  have  missed  her, 
though." 

"  I  couldn't  ha'  believed  how  I'd  miss  her.  Do  you  know 
the  want  of  her  to  talk  to  made  me  do  what  I  ain't  done  for 
twenty  year  ?  " 

"  What's  that,  Mr.  Kitely  ?    Go  to  church  of  a  Sunday  ?  " 

"  More  than  that,  miss,"  answered  the  bookseller,  laughing — 
a  little  sheepishly.  "  Would  you  believe  it  of  me  ?  I've  been 
to  church  of  a  week-day  more  than  once.  Ha  !  ha  !  But 
then  it  wasn't  a  long  rigmarole,  like — " 

"  You  mustn't  talk  about  it  like  that — to  me,  you  know, 
Mr.  Kitely." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  miss.  I  only  meant  he  didn't  give  us 
a  Sundayful  of  it,  you  know.  I  never  could  ha'  stood  that. 
We  had  just  a  little  prayer,  and  a  little  chapter,  and  a  little 


230  Guild  Court. 

sermon — good  sense,  too,  upon  my  word.  I  know  I  altered  a 
price  or  two  in  my  catalogue  when  I  come  home  again.  I 
don't  know  as  I  was  right,  but  I  did  it,  just  to  relieve  my 
mind  and  make  believe  I  was  doin'  as  the  minister  told  me. 
If  they  was  all  like  Mr.  Fuller,  I  don't  know  as  I  should  ha' 
the  heart  to  say  much  agen  them." 

"  So  it's  Mr.' Fuller's  church  you've  been  going  to  ?  I'm  so 
glad  !    How  often  has  he  service,  then  ?  " 

"Every  day,  miss.  Think  o'  that.  It  don't  take  long, 
though,  as  I  tell  you.  But  why  should  it  ?  If  there  is  any 
good  in  talking  at  all,  it  comes  more  of  being  the  right  thing 
than  the  muchness  of  it,  as  my  old  father  used  to  say — for  he 
was  in  the  business  afore  me,  miss,  though  I  saw  a  great  deal 
more  o'  the  world  than  ever  he  did  afore  I  took  to  it  myself — 
says  he,  '  It  strikes  me,  Jacob,  there's  more  for  your  money  in 
some  o'  those  eighteen  mos,  if  you  could  only  read  'em,  than 
in  some  o'  them  elephants.  I  ha'  been  a  watchin','  says  he, 
1  the  sort  o'  man  that  buys  the  one  and  that  buys  the  tother. 
When  a  little  man  with  a  shabby  coat  brings  in  off  the  stall 
one  o'  them  sixpenny  books  in  Latin,  that  looks  so  barbarious 
to  me,  and  pops  it  pleased  like  into  the  tail  of  his  coat — as  if 
he  meant  to  have  it  out  again  the  minute  he  was  out  of  the 
shop — then  I  thinks  there's  something  in  that  little  book — 
and  something  in  that  little  man,'  says  father,  miss.  And  so 
I  stick  up  for  the  sermons  and  the  little  prayers,  miss.  I've 
been  thinking  about  it  since  ;  and  I  think  Mr.  Fuller's  right 
about  the  short  prayers.  They're  much  more  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  Lord's  Prayer  anyhow.  I  never  heard  of  anybody 
getting  tired  before  that  was  over.  As  you  are  fond  of  church, 
miss,  you'd  better  drop  into  Mr.  Fuller's  to-morrow  mornin'. 
If  you  go  once,  you'll  go  again." 

Long  after,  Lucy  told  Mr.  Fuller  what  the  bookseller  had 
said,  and  it  made  him  think  yet  again  whether  our  long  pray- 
ers— services,  as  we  call  them,  forsooth — are  not  all  a  mistake, 
and  closely  allied  to  the  worship  of  the  Pagans,  who  think 
they  shall  be  heard  for  their  much  speaking. 

She  went  out  by  the  side-door  into  the  archway.  As  she 
opened  it,  a  figure  sped  past  her,  fleet  and  silent.  She  started 
back.  Why  should  it  remind  her  of  Thomas  ?  She  had 
scarcely  seen  more  in  the  darkness  than  a  deeper  darkness  in 
motion,  for  she  came  straight  from  the  light. 

She  found  the  door  not  as  she  left  it. 

"Has  Thomas  been  here,  grannie?"  she  asked,  with  an 
alarm  she  could  not  account  for. 


Mrs.  BoxaU  and  Mr.  Stopper.  231 

"  No,  indeed.  He  has  favored  us  with  little  of  his  com- 
pany this  many  a  day,"  answered  grannie,  speaking  out  of  the 
feelings  which  had  gradually  grown  from  the  seeds  sown  hy 
Stopper.  "  The  sooner  you're  off  with  him, -my  dear,  the  bet- 
ter, for  you  !  "  she  continued.     "He's  no  good,  I  doubt." 

With  a  terrible  sinking  at  the  heart,  Lucy  heard  her  grand- 
mother's words.  But  she  would  fight  Thomas's  battles  to  the 
last. 

"  If  ever  that  man  dares  to  say  a  word  against  Thomas  in 
my  hearing,"  she  said,  "  I'll — I'll — I'll  leave  the  room." 

0  most  lame  and  impotent  conclusion  !  But  Lucy  carried 
it  farther  than  her  words  ;  for  when  Mr.  Stopper  entered  the 
next  morning,  with  a  face  scared  into  the  ludicrous,  she,  with- 
out even  waiting  to  hear  what  he  had  to  say,  though  she  fore- 
boded evil,  rose  at  once  and  left  the  room.  Mr.  Stopper  stood 
and  looked  after  her  in  dismayed  admiration  ;  for  Lucy  was 
one  of  those  few  whose  anger  even  is  of  such  an  unselfish  and  un- 
spiteful  nature,  that  it  gives  a  sort  of  piquancy  to  their  beauty. 

"I  hope  I  haven't  offended  the  young  lady,"  said  Mr.  Stop- 
per, with  some  concern. 

"Never  you  mind,  Mr.  Stopper.  I've  been  giving  her  a 
hint  about  Thomas,  and  she's  not  got  over  it  yet.  Never  you 
mind  her.  It's  me  you've  got  to  do  with,  and  I  ain't  got  no 
fancies." 

"  It's  just  as  well,  perhaps,  that  she  did  walk  herself  away." 
said  Mr.  Stopper. 

"You've  got  some  news,  Mr.  Stopper.  Sit  ye  down.  Will 
you  have  a  cup  o'  tea  ?" 

"No,  thank  you.     Where's  the  keys,  Mrs.  Boxall  ?■" 

The  old  lady  looked  up  at  the  wall,  then  back  at  Mr.  Stopper. 

"  Why,  go  along  !     There  they  are  in  your  oAvn  hand." 

"  Yes  ;  but  where  do  you  think  I  found  them  ? — Hanging 
in  the  door  of  the  safe,  and  all  the  money  gone  from  the  cash- 
box.     I  haven't  got  over  the  shock  of  it  yet." 

"Why,  good  heavens  !  Mr.  Stopper,"  said  the  old  lady,  who 
was  rather  out  of  temper  with  both  herself  and  Lucy,  "you 
don't  think  I've  been  a-robbing  of  your  cash-box,  do  you  ?  " 

Mr.  Stopper  laughed  aloud. 

"  Well,  ma'am,  that  would  be  a  roundabout  way  of  coming 
by  your  own.  I  don't  think  we  could  make  out  a  case  against 
you  if  you  had.  Not  quite.  But,  seriously,  who  came  into 
the  house  after  I  left  ?  I  hung  the  keys  on  that  wall  with  my 
own  hands." 

"  And  I  saw  them  there  when  I  went  to  bed,"  said  Mrs. 


232  Guild  Court. 

Boxall,  making  a  general  impression  ground  for  an  individual 
assertion. 

"  Then  somebody  must  have  come  in  after  you  had  gone  to 
hed — some  one  that  knew  the  place.  Did  you  find  the  street 
door  had  been  tampered  with  ?  " 

"  Lucy  opened  it  this  morning. "    " 

Mrs.  Boxall  went  to  the  door  and  called  her  grand-daughter. 
Lucy  came,  thinking  Mr.  Stopper  must  be  gone.  When  she 
saw  him  there,  she  would  have  left  the  room  again,  but  her 
grandmother  interfered. 

"Come  here,  child,"  she  said,  peremptorily.  "Was  the 
house-door  open  when  you  went  down  this  morning  ?  " 

Lucy  felt  her  face  grow  pale  with  the  vaguest  foreboding — 
associated  with  the  figure  which  had  run  through  the  archway 
and  her  finding  the  door  open.  But  she  kept  her  self-com- 
mand. 

"  No,  grannie.     The  door  was  shut  as  usual." 

"Did  nobody  call  last  night  ?"  asked  Mr.  Stopper,  who  had 
his  suspicions,  and  longed  to  have  them  confirmed  in  order  to 
pay  off  old  scores  at  once. 

"JSTobody ;  that  I'll  give  my  word  for,"  answered  Mrs.  Box- 
all. 

"A  most  unaccountable  thing,  ladies,"  said  Stopper,  rub- 
bing his  forehead  as  if  he  would  fain  rouse  an  idea  in  his 
baffled  brain. 

"  Have  you  lost  much  money  ?  "  asked  the  old  lady. 

"Oh,  it's  not  the  money;  that's  a  flea-bite.  But  justice, 
you  know — that's  the  point,"  said  Mr.  Stopper,  with  his  face 
full  of  meaning. 

"Do  you  suspect  any  one,  Mr.  Stopper  ?" 

' '  I  do.  I  found  something  on  the  floor.  If  Mr.  Worboise 
were  come,"  he  continued,  looking  hard  at  Lucy,  "he  might 
be  able  to  help  us  out  with  it.  Sharp  fellow  that.  But  it's  an 
hour  past  his  time,  and  he's  not  made  his  appearance  yet.  I 
fear  he's  been  taking  to  fast  ways  lately.  I'll  just  go  across  the 
court  to  Mr.  Molken,  and  see  if  he  knows  anything  about 
him." 

"You'll  oblige  me,"  said  Lucy,  who  was  cold  to  the  very 
heart,  but  determined  to  keep  up,  "  by  doing  nothing  of  the 
sort.  I  will  not  have  his  name  mentioned  in  the  matter. 
Does  any  one  but  yourself  know  of  the— the  robbery,  Mr.  Stop- 
per ?  " 

"  Not  a  soul,  miss.  I  wouldn't  do  anything  till  I  had  been 
to  you.     I  was  here  first,  as  I  generally  am." 


Mrs.  BoxaU  and  Mr.  Stopper.  233 

"  Then,  if  I  am  to  have  anything  to  say  at  all,"  she  returned 
with  dignity,  "  let  the  matter  rest  in  the  mean  time — at  least 
till  you  have  some  certainty.  If  you  don't  you  will  make  sus- 
picion fall  on  the  innocent.  It  might  have  been  grannie  or 
myself,  for  anything  you  can  tell  yet." 

" Highty-tighty,  lass  !"  said  her  grandmother.  "We're  on 
our  high  horse,  I  believe." 

Before  she  could  say  more,  however,  Lucy  had  left  the 
room.  She  just  managed  to  reach  her  bed,  and  fell  fainting 
upon  it. 

Money  had  evidently,  even  in  the  shadow  it  cast  before  it, 
wrought  no  good  effect  upon  old  Mrs.  Boxall.  The  bond  be- 
tween her  and  her  grand-daughter  was  already  weakened.  She 
had  never  spoken  thus  to  her  till  now. 

"Never  you  mind  what  the  wench  says,"  she  went  on  to 
Stopper.  "  The  money's  none  of  hers,  and  shan't  be  except  I 
please.  You  just  do  as  you  think  proper,  Mr.  Stopper.  If 
that  young  vagabond  has  taken  the  money,  why  you  take  him, 
and  see  what  the  law  will  say  to  it.  The  sooner  our  Lucy  is 
shut  of  him  the  better  for  her — and  may  be  for  you  too,  Mr. 
Stopper,"  added  the  old  lady,  looking  insinuatingly  at  him. 

But  whether  the  head  clerk  had  any  design  upon  Lucy  or 
not,  he  seemed  to  think  that  her  favor  was  of  as  much  conse- 
quence as  that  of  her  grandmother.  He  might  have  reasoned 
in  this  way — that  he  could  not  expose  Thomas  without  mak- 
ing Lucy  his  enemy,  both  from  her  regard  to  him  and  because 
of  the  disgrace  that  would  come  upon  her  by  having  her  name  as- 
sociated with  his  ;  and  Mrs.  Boxall  was  old,  and  Lucy  might  take 
her  place  any  day  in  the  course  of  nature.  Whereas,  so  long  as 
he  kept  the  secret  and  strengthened  the  conclusions  against 
Thomas  without  divulging  them,  he  had  a  hold  over  Lucy, 
even  a  claim  upon  her  gratitude,  he  would  say,  which  he 
might  employ  as  he  saw  occasion,  and  as  prudence  should 
direct,  holding  his  revenge  still  ready  in  his  hands  in  case 
there  should  be  nothing  to  be  gained  by  foregoing  it.  There- 
fore, when  the  clerk  in  whose  charge  the  money-box  was, 
opened  it,  he  found  in  it  only  a  ticket  with  Mr.  Stopper's  in- 
itials, and  the  sum  abstracted  in  figures,  by  which  it  was  im- 
plied that  Mr.  Stopper  had  taken  the  contents  for  his  own 
use.  So,  although  it  seemed  queer  that  he  should  have 
emptied  it  of  the  whole  sum,  even  to  the  few  coppers,  there 
was  nothing  to  be  said,  and  hardly  anything  to  be  conjectured 
even. 

As  Thomas  did  not  make  his  appearance  all  day,  not  a 


234  Guild  Court. 

doubt  remained  upon  Mr.  Stopper's  mind  that  lie  had  com- 
mited  the  robbery.  But  he  was  so  well  acquainted  with  the 
minutest  details  of  the  business  that  he  knew  very  well  that  the 
firm  was  the  gainer  by  Thomas's  absconding  as  nearly  as  pos- 
sible to  the  same  amount  that  he  had  taken.  This  small  alle- 
viation of  Thomas's  crime,  however,  Mr.  Stopper  took  no 
pains  to  communicate  to  Lucy,  chuckling  only  over  his  own 
good  fortune  in  getting  rid  of  him  so  opportunely ;  for  he 
would  no  longer  stand  in  his  way,  even  if  he  were  to  venture 
on  making  advances  to  Lucy ;  she  could  never  have  anything 
more  to  do  with  a  fellow  who  could  be  tried  for  burglary  if  he 
chose  to  apply  for  a  warrant  for  his  apprehension. 

Intending  that  his  forbearance  should  have  the  full  weight 
of  obedience  to  her  wishes,  Mr.  Stopper  went  up  in  the  even- 
ing after  the  counting-house  was  closed.  Lucy  was  not  there. 
She  had  not  left  her  room  since  the  morning,  and  the  old 
woman's  tenderness  had  revived  a  little. 

"  Perhaps  you'd  better  not  hang  them  keys  up  there,  Mr. 
Stopper.  I  don't  care  about  the  blame  of  them.  I've  had 
enough  of  it.  There's  Lucy,  poor  dear,  lying  on  her  bed  like 
a  dead  thing  ;  and  neither  bit  nor  sup  passed  her  lips  all  day. 
Take  your  keys  away  with  you,  Mr.  Stopper.  I'll  have  noth- 
ing more  to  do  wi'  them,  I  can  tell  you.  And  don't  you  go 
and  take  away  that  young  man's  character,  Mr.  Stopper." 

"  Indeed  I  should  be  very  sorry,  Mrs.  Boxall.  He  hasn't  been 
here  all  day,  but  I  haven't  even  made  a  remark  on  his  absence 
to  any  one  about  the  place." 

"That's  very  right,  Mr.  Stopper.  The  young  gentleman 
may  be  at  home  with  a  headache." 

"Very  likely,"  answered  Mr.  Stopper,  dryly.  "Good- 
night, Mrs.  Boxall.  And  as  the  keys  must  have  an  unpleas- 
ant look  after  what  has  happened,  I'll  just  put  them  in  my 
pocket  and  take  them  home  with  me." 

"Do  ye  that,  Mr.  Stopper.  And  good-night  to  you.  And 
if  the  youug  man  comes  back  to-morrow,  don't  'ee  take  no 
notice  of  what's  come  and  gone.  If  you're  sure  he  took  it, 
you  can  keep  it  off  his  salary,  with  a  wink  for  a  warning,  you 
know." 

"All  right,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Stopper,  taking  his  departure 
in  less  good  humor  than  he  showed. 

I  will  not  say  much  about  Lucy's  feelings.  For  some  time 
she  was  so  stunned  by  the  blow  as  to  be  past  conscious  suffer- 
ing. Then  commenced  a  slow  oscillation  of  feeling  :  for  one 
half  hour,  unknown  to  her  as  time,  she  would  be  declaring 


Mattie  Falls  and  Rises  Again.  235 

him  unworthy  of  occasioning  her  trouble  ;  for  the  next  she 
would  be  accusing  his  attachment  to  her,  and  her  own  want 
of  decision  in  not  absolutely  refusing  to  occupy  the  question- 
able position  in  which  she  found  herself,  as  the  combined 
causes  of  his  ruin  :  for  as  ruin  she  could  not  but  regard  such  a 
fall  as  his.  She  had  no  answer  to  her  letter — heard  nothing 
of  him  all  day,  and  in  the  evening  her  grandmother  brought 
her  the  statement  of  Mr.  Stopper  that  Thomas  had  not  been 
there.  She  turned  her  face  away  toward  the  wall,  and  her 
grandmother  left  her,  grumbling  at  girls  generally,  and  girls 
in  love  especially.  Meantime  a  cherub  was  on  its  way  toward 
her,  bearing  a  little  bottle  of  comfort  under  its  wing. 


CHAPTEE  XXXV. 

MATTIE  FALLS  AND   EISES  AGAIN". 

Mattie  had  expected  Lucy  to  call  for  her  in  the  forenoon 
and  take  her  out  to  Wyvil  Place  to  see  Miriam.  Spending 
the  morning  with  her  father  in  the  shop,  amidst  much  talk, 
conducted  with  the  most  respectful  docility  on  the  part  of  the 
father,  and  a  good  deal  of  condescending  assertion  on  the  part 
of  the  child,  she  had  run  out  twenty  times  to  look  at  the 
clock  at  St.  Jacob's  ;  and  at  length,  finding  that  Lucy  did  not 
come,  had  run  up  and  knocked  at  her  door,  giving  Mr.  Spelt 
a  promissory  nod  as  she  passed.  Hearing  from  Mrs.  Boxall, 
however,  that  Miss  Burton  was  too  tired  to  go  out  with 
her,  she  turned  in  some  disappointment,  and  sought  Mr. 
Spelt. 

"Well,  mother,  how  do  you  do  ?"  she  asked,  perking  up 
her  little  gray  face,  over  which  there  was  now  a  slight  wash 
of  rose-color,  toward  the  watch-tower  of  the  tailor. 

"  Quite  well,  Mattie.  *  And  you  look  well,"  answered  Mr. 
Spelt. 

"And  I  am  well,  I  assure  you  ;  better  than  I  ever  expected 
to  be  in  this  world,  mother.  I  mean  to  come  up  beside  you  a 
bit.     I  want  to  tell  you  something." 

"  I  don't  know,  Mattie,"  answered  Mr.  Spelt,  with  some  em- 
barrassment.    "Is  it  anything  in  particular  ?  " 

"In  particular  !  Well,  I  should  think  so,"  returned  Mattie, 


236  Guild  Court 

with  a  triumph  just  dashed  with  displeasure,  for  she  had  not 
been  accustomed  to  any  hesitation  in  accepting  her  adyances 
on  the  part  of  Mr.  Spelt.  "I should  think  so.  Then,  low- 
ering her  voice  to  a  keen  whisper,  she  added,  "I've  been  to 
see  God  in  his  own  house." 

"Been  to  church,  have  you  ?"  said  Mr.  Spelt. 

Now  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  Spelt  was  behaving  dishonestly — 
not  from  choice,  but  from  embarrassment  and  fear  springing 
from  a  false  conscientiousness.  And  Mattie  felt  at  once  that 
Mr.  Spelt  was  not  behaving  like  himself. 

"No,  Mr.  Spelt,"  she  answered  with  dignity — bridling  in- 
deed;  "  I've  not  been  to  church.  You  don't  call  that  God's 
house,  do  you  ?  Them  !  They're  nothing  but  little  shops  like 
your  own,  Mr.  Spelt.  But  God's  house  ! — Take  me  up,  I  say. 
Don't  make  me  shout  such  things  in  the  open  street. " 

Thus  adjured,  Mr.  Spelt  could  stand  out  no  longer.  He 
stooped  over  his  threshold  and  lifted  Mattie  toward  him.  But 
the  moment  her  head  reached  the  level  of  his  floor,  she  under- 
stood it  all.  In  her  old  place  in  the  corner  sat  the  little  de- 
moniac Poppie,  clothed  and  in  her  right  mind.  A  true  ob- 
server, however,  would  have  seen  from  her  pale,  thin  face  that 
possibly  her  quietude  was  owing  more  to  weakness  than  to  any 
revolution  in  her  nature. 

"  Well  ! "  said  Mattie,  with  hauteur.  "  Will  you  set  me 
down  again,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Spelt." 

"I  think,  perhaps,"  said  the  tailor,  meekly,  holding  the 
child  still  suspended  in  the  air,  "I  could  find  room  for  you 
both.  The  corner  opposite  the  door  there,  Mattie,"  he  added, 
looking  round  suggestively  in  the  direction  of  the  spot  sig- 
nified. 

"  Put  me  down,"  insisted  Mattie,  in  such  a  tone  that  Mr. 
Spelt  dared  not  keep  her  in  suspense  any  longer,  but  lowered 
her  gently  to  the  ground.  All  the  time  Poppie  had  been  star- 
ing with  great  black  eyes,  which  seemed  to  have  grown  much 
larger  during  her  illness,  and,  of  course,  saying  nothing. 

As  soon  as  the  soles  of  Mattie's  feet  touched  the  ground,  she 
seemed  to  gather  strength  like  Antaeus  ;  for  instead  of  turning 
and  walking  away,  with  her  head  as  high,  morally  considered, 
as  that  of  any  giant,  she  began  to  parley  with  the  offending 
Mr.  Spelt. 

"  I  have  heard,  mother — Mr.  Spelt — that  you  should  be  off 
with  the  old  love  before  you're  on  with  the  new.     You  never 
told  me  what  you  were  about. " 

"  But  you  was  away  from  home,  Mattie." 


Mattie  Falls  and  Rises  Again.  237 

"  You  could  haye  written.  It  would  only  have  cost  a  penny. 
I  shouldn't  have  minded  paying  it." 

"Well,  Mattie,  shall  I  turn  Poppie  out  ?" 

"  Oh  !  i"  don't  want  you  to  turn  her  out.  You  would  say  I 
drove  her  to  the  streets  again." 

"  Do  you  remember,  Mattie,  that  you  wouldn't  go  to  that 
good  lady's  house  because  she  didn't  ask  Poppie,  too.  Do 
you?" 

A  moment's  delay  in  the  child's  answer  revealed  shame. 
But  she  was  ready  in  a  moment. 

"  Hers  is  a  big  house.     That's  my  own  very  corner." 

"Don't  you  see  how  ill  Poppie  is  ?" 

"  Well !  "  said  the  hard  little  thing,  with  a  side  nod  of  her 
head  over  the  speaking  corner  of  her  mouth. 

Mr.  Spelt  began  to  be  a  little  vexed.  He  took  the  upper 
hand  now  and  came  home  to  her.  She  was  turning  to  go 
away,  when  he  spoke  in  a  tone  that  stopped  her.  But  she 
stood  with  her  back  half  turned  toward  him. 

"Mattie,  do  you  remember  the  story  Somebody  told  us 
about  the  ragged  boy  that  came  home  again,  and  how  his 
brother,  with  the  good  clothes  on,  was  offended,  and  wouldn't 
go  in  because  he  thought  he  was  taking  his  place  ?  You're 
behaving  just  the  same  as  the  brother  with  the  good  clothes.  "• 

"I  don't  know  that.  There's  some  difference,  I'm  sure.  I 
don't  think  you're  telling  the  story  right.  I  don't  think 
there's  anything  about  taking  his  place.  I'll  just  go  and  look. 
I  can  read  it  for  myself,  Mr.  Spelt." 

So  saying,  Mattie  walked  away  to  the  house,  with  various 
backward  tosses  of  the  head.  Mr.  Spelt  drew  his  head  into 
his  shell,  troubled  at  Mattie's  naughtiness.  Poppie  stared  at 
him,  but  said  nothing,  for  she  had  nothing  to  say. 

When  Mattie  entered  the  shop,  her  father  saw  that  some- 
thing was  amiss  with  her. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  my  princess  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Oh,  nothing  much,"  answered  Mattie,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes.  "I  shall  get  over  it,  I  dare  say.  Mr.  Spelt  has  been 
very  naughty,"  she  added;  in  a  somewhat  defiant  tone  ;  and 
before  her  father  could  say  anything  more  she  had  reached  the 
stairs,  and  went  to  her  own  room. 

My  reader  must  imagine  her  now  taking  down  a  huge  fam- 
ily Bible  her  father  had  given  her  for  the  sake  of  the  large 
print.  She  lugs  it  along  and  heaves  it  upon  her  bed  ;  then, 
by  a  process  known  only  to  herself,  finds  the  place,  and  begins 
to  spell  out  the  story  once  more,  to  discover  whether  the  tailor 


238  Guild  Court. 

has  not  garbled  it  to  her  condemnation.  But,  as  she  reads, 
the  story  itself  lays  hold  upon  her  little  heart,  and  she  finds  a 
far  greater  condemnation  there  than  she  had  found  in  her 
friend's  reproof.  About  half  an  hour  after,  she  ran — Mattie 
seldom  ran — past  Mr.  Spelt  and  Poppie,  not  venturing  to  look 
up,  though,  ere  she  came  too  near,  the  tailor  could  see  the  red 
eyes  in  the  white  face,  and  knocked  at  Mrs.  Boxall's  door. 

Lucy  was  still  lying  on  her  bed  when  she  heard  little 
knuckles  at  her  door,  and  having  answered  without  looking 
round,  felt,  a  moment  after,  a  tiny  hand  steal  into  hers.  She 
opened  her  eyes,  and  saw  Mattie  by  her  bedside.  Nor  was  she 
too  much  absorbed  in  her  own  griefs  to  note  that  the  child 
had  hers,  too. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Mattie,  my  dear  ?"  she  asked, 
in  a  faint  voice. 

Mattie  burst  into  tears — a  rare  proceeding  with  the  princess. 
It  was  some  moments  before  she  could  sob  out : 

"  I've  been  so  naughty,  Miss  Burton — so  very  naughty  ! " 

Lucy  raised  herself,  sat  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  took  the 
child's  hand.     Mattie  could  not  look  up. 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  that,  Mattie.     What  have  you  done  ?" 

" Such  a  shame.     Poppie!    Far  country.     Elder  brother." 

These  were  almost  the  only  words  Lucy  could  hear  for  the 
sobs  of  the  poor  child.  Hence  she  could  only  guess  at  the 
cause  of  her  grief,  and  her  advice  must  be  general. 

"If  you  have  done  wrong  to  Poppie,  or  any  one,  you  must 
go  and  tell  her  so,  and  try  to  make  up  for  it." 

"Yes,  I  will,  for  I  can't  bear  it,"  answered  Mattie,  begin- 
ning to  recover  herself.  "  Think  of  doing  the  very  same  as 
the  one  I  was  so  angry  with  when  mother  read  the  story  !  I 
couldn't  bear  to  see  Poppie  in  my  place  in  mother's  shop,  and 
I  was  angry,  and  wouldn't  go  in.  But  I'll  go  now,  as  soon  as 
I  get  my  poor  eyes  dried." 

Lucy  was  not  able  to  say  much  to  her,  and  Mattie  was  so 
taken  up  with  her  own  repentance  that  she  did  not  see  that 
Lucy  was  in  trouble,  too.  In  a  few  minutes  the  child  an- 
nounced her  intention  of  going  to  Mr.  Spelt  at  once,  and  left 
Lucy  to  her  own  thoughts.  I  will  first  tell  how  Mattie  finished 
her  repentance,  and  then  return  to  Lucy. 

She  walked  right  under  Mr.  Spelt's  door,  and  called  aloud, 
but  with  a  wavering  voice  : 

"Mother,  take  me  up  directly.     I'm  very  sorry." 

Over  the  threshold  came  a  pair  of  arms,  and  Mattie  was 
hoisted  into  the  heaven  of  her  repentant  desire.     As  soon  as 


Mattie  Falls  and  Rises  Again.  239 

she  was  in  it  she  crawled  on  her  hands  and  knees — even  she 
could  scarcely  have  stood  in  the  place — toward  Poppie. 

"How  do  you  do,  prodigal?"  she  said,  putting  her  arms 
round  the  bewildered  Poppie,  who  had  no  more  idea  of  what 
she  meant  than  a  child  born  in  heaven  would  have  had.  "  Pm 
very  glad  to  see  you  home  again.  Put  on  this  ring,  and  we'll 
both  be  good  children  to  mother  there." 

So  saying,  she  took  a  penny  ring,  with  a  bit  of  red  and  two 
bits  of  green  glass  in  it,  from  her  finger,  and  put  it  upon  Pop- 
pie's,  who  submitted  speechless,  but  was  pleased  with  the  glit- 
ter of  the  toy.  She  did  not  kiss  in  return,  though  :  Poppie 
liked  to  be  kissed,  but  she  had  not  learned  to  kiss  yet. 

"Mother,"  Mattie  went  on,  "I  was  behaving  like — like — 
like — a  wicked  Pharisee  and  Sadducee.  I  beg  your  pardon, 
mother.    I  will  be  good.    May  I  sit  in  the  corner  by  the  door  ?  " 

"I  think,"  answered  the  little  tailor,  greatly  moved,  and 
believing  in  the  wind  that  bloweth  where  it  listeth  more  than 
ever  he  had  believed  before — "I  think  if  I  were  to  move  a 
little,  you  could  sit  in  the  corner  by  the  window,  and  then  you 
would  see  into  the  court  better.  Only,"  he  said,  as  he  drew 
his  work  about  his  new  position,  "  you  must  not  lean  much 
against  the  sash,  for  it  is  not  very  sound,  and  you  might 
tumble  in  the  court,  you  know." 

So  Mattie  and  Poppie  sat  side  by  side,  and  the  heart  of  the 
tailor  had  a  foretaste  of  heaven. 

Presently  Mattie  began  to  talk  to  Poppie.  She  could  scarcely, 
however,  draw  a  single  response  from  her,  for  she  had  nothing 
to  say.  Interchange  of  thought  was  unknown  to  the  elder 
child,  and  Mattie's  words  were  considerably  less  intelligible  to 
Poppie  than  the  autumn  wind  that  blew  round  their'  nest. 
Mattie  was  annoyed.  The  romance  of  the  reconciliation  was 
dimmed.  Instinctively  she  felt  that  the  only  way  to  restore  it 
was  to  teach  Poppie,  and  she  took  her  in  hand  at  once. 

There  was  more  hope  for  Poppie,  and  Spelt,  too,  now  that 
Mattie  was  in  the  work,  for  there  is  no  teacher  of  a  child  like 
a  child.  All  the  tutors  of  Oxford  and  Cambridge  will  not 
bring  on  a  baby  as  a  baby  a  year  older  will.  The  childlike  is 
as  essential  an  element  in  the  teacher  as  in  the  scholar.  And 
the  train  of  my  story  is  not  going  so  fast  but  that  I  may  pull 
up  at  this  siding  for  a  moment  to  say  that  those  who  believe 
they  have  found  a  higher  truth,  with  its  higher  mode  of  con- 
veyance, are  very  apt  to  err  in  undervaluing,  even  to  the 
degree  of  wishing  to.  remove  the  lower  forms  in  which  truth, 
if  not  embodied  exactly,  is  at  least  wrapt  up.     Truth  may  be 


240  Guild  Court. 

presented  in  the  grandeur  of  a  marble  statue,  or  in  a  brown- 
paper  parcel.  I  choose  the  sculpture  ;  my  last  son  prefers  the 
parcel.  The  only  question  is  whether  there  is  truth — not  in 
the  abstract,  but  as  assimilable  by  the  recipient — present  in  the 
form.  I  cannot,  however,  resume  without  a  word  on  the  other 
side.  To  the  man  who  sees  and  feels  the  higher  and  nobler 
form,  it  is  given  to  teach  that.  Let  those  to  whom  the  lower 
represents  the  sum  of  things,  teach  it  with  their  whole  hearts. 
He  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,  for  he  cannot  teach  it  without 
being  false.  The  snare  of  the  devil  holds  men  who,  capable  of 
teaching  the  higher,  talk  of  the  people  not  being  ready  to 
receive  it,  and  therefore  teach  them  in  forms  which  are  to  their 
own  souls  an  obstruction.  There  is  cowardice  and  desertion  in 
it.  They  leave  their  own  harder  and  higher  work  to  do  the 
easier  and  clumsier  work  of  their  neighbor.  It  is  wasteful  of 
time,  truth,  and  energy.  The  man  who  is  most  careful  over 
the  truth  that  lies  in  forms  not  his  own,  will  be  the  man  most 
careful  to  let  no  time-serving  drag  him  down — not  to  the  level 
of  the  lower  teachers,  for  they  are  honest — but  to  the  level  of 
Job's  friends,  who  lied  for  God ;  nay,  lower  still ;  for  this  will 
soon  cease  to  be  lying  even  for  God,  and  become  lying  for 
himself. 

When  Mattie  left  her,  Lucy  again  threw  herself  down,  and 
turned  her  face  to  the  wall,  and  the  story  of  which  Mattie  had 
been  talking  straightway  began  to  mingle  with  all  that  filled 
her  troubled  mind.  For  who  was  a  prodigal  son  but  her  lost 
Thomas  ?  Lost  indeed  !  But  there  was  another  word  in  the 
parable  to  balance  that — there  was  found  as  well.  Thomas 
might  be  found  again.  And  if  the  angels  in  heaven  rejoiced 
over  the  finding  of  such  a  lost  wanderer,  why  should  she  cut 
the  cable  of  Love,  and  let  him  go  adrift  from  her  heart  ? 
Might  she  not  love  him  still  ?  Ought  she  not  to  love  him 
still  ?  Was  he  not  more  likely  to  come  back  some  day  if  she 
went  on  loving  him  ?  The  recent  awaking  of  Lucy's  spiritual 
nature — what  would  be  called  by  some,  her  conversion — had 
been  so  interpenetrated  with  the  image,  the  feeling,  the  sub- 
jective presence  of  Thomas — she  had  thought  so  much  of  him 
while  stooping  her  own  shoulders  to  the  easy  yoke,  that  she 
could  not  leave  him  out  now,  and  it  seemed  as  if,  were  she  to 
give  him  up,  she  would  lose  half  the  incentive  to  press  forward 
herself.  The  fibres  of  her  growth  had  so  twined  around  him, 
that  if  the  idea  of  his  regeneration  departed  from  her,  the 
hope  of  her  own  would  sicken,  at  least,  if  not  die.  True, 
Pride  hinted  at  the  disgrace  of  being  allied  to  such  a  man- 


I 


Business.  241 

a  man  who  had  stolen  ;  but  Faith  replied,  that  if  there  were 
joy  in  heaven  over  him,  she  too  might  rejoice  over  him  when 
he  came  back  ;  and  if  the  Father  received  the  prodigal  with  all 
his  heart,  she  too  might  receive  him  with  all  hers.  But  she 
would  have  no  right  to  receive  him  thus  if  she  did  nothing  to 
restore  him  ;  nor  would  she  have  any  right  to  put  forth  in  full 
her  reclaiming  influence  except  she  meant  thus  to  receive  him. 
Her  conscience  began  to  reproach  her  that  she  had  not  before 
done  all  that  she  could  to  reclaim  him,  and,  if  she  only  knew 
the  way,  she  was  now  at  least  prepared  to  spend  and  be  spent 
for  him.  But  she  had  already  done  all  that  she  was,  at  this 
juncture  of  his  history,  to  be  allowed  to  do  for  the  wretched 
trifler.  God  had  taken  the  affair  out  of  her  hands,  and  had 
put  it  into  those  of  somewhat  harder  teachers. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

BUSINESS. 

"Whek  Mr.  Worboise  found  that  Thomas  did  not  return 
that  night,  he  concluded  at  once  that  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  thwart  him  in  his  now  cherished  plan,  to  refuse  the 
daughter  of  Sir  Jonathan  Hubbard,  and  marry  the  girl  whom 
his  father  disliked.  He  determined  at  once,  even  supposing 
he  might  be  premature  as  regarded  the  property,  to  have  the  . 
satisfaction  of  causing  the  Boxalls  sharp  uneasiness  at  least.  ; 
His  son  would  not  have  dared  to  go  against  his  wishes  but  fori 
the  enticements  of  "that  minx,"  in  the  confidence  that  her' 
uncle's  property  was  about  to  be  hers.  He  would  teach  her, 
and  him  too,  a  lesson.  Either  her  uncle  or  some  one  or  more 
of  his  family  were  not  drowned,  or  they  were  all  drowned  :  in 
neither  case  was  the  property  hers.  If  one  of  the  family  was 
alive,  the  property  remained  where  it  was  ;  if  they  were  all 
gone,  the  property  was  his.  He  thought  himself  into  a  rage 
over  her  interference  with  his  plans,  judged  himself  an  injured 
person,  and  thereby  freed  of  any  trifling  obligation  that  a 
fastidious  conscience  might  have  fancied  to  exist  to  the  preju- 
dice of  his  claims  upon  the  property  of  his  friend,  supposed  to 
be  deceased.  He  .  was  now  ready  to  push  his  rights  to  the 
uttermost — to  exact  the  pound  of  flesh  that  the  law  awarded 
16 


242  Guild  Court. 

him.  He  went  the  next  morning  but  one  after  Thomas's  dis- 
appearance and  propounded  the  will. 

In  due  time  this  came  to  the  knowledge  of  Mr.  Sargent. 
He  wrote  to  Mrs.  Boxall  a  stiff  business  letter  acquainting  her 
with  the  fact,  and  then  called  upon  Mr.  Worboise  to  see 
whether  some  arrangement  could  not  be  come  to  ;  for,  having 
learned  the  nature  of  the  will,  he  saw  that  almost  any  decent 
division  of  the  property,  for  which  he  could  only  appeal  to  the 
justice  of  the  man,  would  be  better  than  a  contest.  Mr.  Wor- 
boise received  him  with  a  graciousness  reaching  almost  to 
kindness,  talked  lightly  of  the  whole  as  a  mere  matter  of 
business  about  which  there  was  no  room  for  disputing,  smiled 
aside  at  every  attempt  made  by  Mr.  Sargent  to  approach  the 
subject  from  another  quarter,  and  made  him  understand,  with- 
out saying  a  word  to  that  effect,  that  he  was  prepared  to  push 
matters  to  the  extreme  of  extremity.  He  even  allowed  him  to 
see  that  he  had  reasons  beyond  the  value  of  the  money  for 
setting  about  the  matter  in  the  coolest,  most  legal  fashion  in 
the  world.  Mr.  Sargent  went  away  baffled — to  devise  upon 
what  ground  he  could  oppose  the  grant  of  probate. 

While  Mr.  Sargent  was  having  his  interview,  Mr.  Stopper 
was  awaiting  his  departure  in  the  clerk's  room.  It  must  be 
remembered  that  Mr.  Stopper  was  now  between  two  stools ; 
and  while  he  came  to  plead  the  cause  of  the  widow  and  father- 
less, he  must  be  especially  careful  for  his  own  sake  not  to  give 
offense.  Him,  too,  Mr.  Worboise  received  with  the  greatest 
good  humor  ;  assured  him  that  there  was  no  mistake  in  the 
matter,  and  he  believed  no  flaw  in  the  will ;  informed  him 
that  he  had  drawn  it  up  himself,  and  had,  at  his  friend's  re- 
quest, entered  his  own  name  as  contingent  reversioner.  His 
friend  might .  have  done  it  in  joke  ;  he  did  not  know  ;  but  he 
had  not  any  intention  of  foregoing  his  rights,  or  turning  out 
of  Luck's  way  when  she  met  him  in  the  teeth.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  meant  to  have  the  money  and  to  use  it ;  for,  at  all 
events,  it  could  not  have  been  in  joke  that  his  friend  had  omit- 
ted his  mother  and  his  niece.  He  must  have  had  some  good 
reason  for  so  doing;  and  he  was  not  one  to  treat  a  dead 
friend's  feeling  with  disrespect — and  so  on,  all  in  pleasant 
words,  and  with  smiling  delivery,  ended  by  a  hearty,  easy 
"good-morning."  For,  ere  he  had  finished,  Mr.  Stopper,  com- 
ing to  the  conclusion  that  nothing  was  to  be  done,  rose  to  take 
his  leave.     At  the  door  he  turned,  and  said--: 

"  I  hope  nothing  is  amiss  with  your  son,  Mr.  Worboise.  I 
hope  he  is  not  ill." 


Business.  243 

"Why  do  you  ask  ?"  returned  Mr.  Worboise,  just  a  little 
staggered  ;  for  he  was  not  prepared  to  hear  that  Thomas  was 
missing  from  Bagot  Street  as  well  as  from  home.  When  he 
heard  the  fact,  however,  he  merely  nodded  his  head,  say- 
ing : 

"Well,  Mr.  Stopper,  he's  too  old  for  me  to  horsewhip  him. 
I  don't  know  what  the  young  rascal  is  after.  I  leave  him  in 
your  hands.  That  kind  of  thing  won't  do,  of  course.  I  don't 
know  that  it  wouldn't  be  the  best  thing  to  discharge  him.  It's 
of  no  consequence  to  me,  you  know,  and  it  would  be  a  lesson 
to  him,  the  young  scapegrace  !  That's  really  going  too  far, 
though  you  and  I  can  make  allowances,  eh,  Stopper  ?  " 

Mr.  Stopper  was  wise  enough  not  to  incur  the  odium  of  a 
Job's  messenger,  by  telling  what  even  Mr.  Worboise  would 
have  considered  bad  news  ;  for  he  had  a  reverence  for  locks  and 
money,  and  regarded  any  actionable  tampering  with  either  as 
disgraceful.  "  Besides,"  thought  Stopper,  "if  it  was  only  to 
spite  the  young  jackanapes,  I  could  almost  marry  that  girl 
without  a  farthing.  But  I  shouldn't  have  a  chance  if  I  were 
to  leak  about  Tom." 

Mr.  Worboise  was  uneasy,  though.  He  told  his  wife  the 
sum  of  what  had  passed  between  Tom  and  himself,  but  I  fear 
enjoyed  her  discomfiture  at  the  relation  ;  for  he  said  spitefully, 
as  he  left  her  room  : 

"Shall  I  call  on  Mr.  Simon  as  I  go  to  town,  and  send  him 
up,  Mrs.  Worboise  ?" 

His  wife  buried  her  face  in  her  pillow,  and  made  no  reply. 
Perhaps  the  husband's  heart  smote  him  ;  but  I  doubt  it, 
though  he  did  call  on  Mr.  Simon  and  send  him  to  her. 

All  the  result  of  Mr.  Simon's  inquiries  was  the  discovery 
that  Thomas  had  vanished  from  the  counting-house,  too. 
Thereupon  a  more  real  grief  than  she  had  ever  known  seized 
the  mother's  heart ;  her  conscience  reproached  her  as  often  as 
Mr.  Simon  hinted  that  it  was  a  judgment  upon  her  for  having 
been  worldly  in  her  views  concerning  her  son's  marriage  ;  and 
she  sent  for  Amy  home,  and  allowed  things  to  take  their  way. 

All  the  comfort  Mr.  Worboise  took  was  to  say  to  himself 
oyer  and  over,  "  The  young  rascal's  old  enough  to  take  care  of 
himself.  He  knows  what  he's  about,  too.  He  thinks  to  force 
me  to  a  surrender  by  starving  me  of  his  precious  self.  We'll 
see.  I've  no  doubt  he's  harbored  in  that  old  woman's  house. 
Stay  a  bit,  and  if  I  don't  fire  him  out — by  Jove  !  She'll  find 
I'm  not  one  to  take  liberties  with,  the  old  hag  ! " 

The  best  that  Mr.  Sargent  could  do  at  present  was  to  resist 


244    -  Guild  Court 

probate  on  the  ground  of  the  uncertainty  of  the  testator's 
death,  delaying  thus  the  execution  of  the  will.  He  had  little 
hope,  however,  of  any  ultimate  success — except  such  as  he 
might  achieve  by  shaming  Mr.  Worboise  into  an  arrange- 
ment. 

Mrs.  Boxall  sent  for  him,  and  with  many  acknowledgments 
begged  him  to  do  his  best  for  them,  saying  that,  if  he  were 
successful,  she  would  gladly  pay  him  whatever  he  demanded. 
He  repudiated  all  idea  of  payment,  however,  and  indeed  con- 
sidered himself  only  too  fortunate  to  be  permitted  to  call  as 
often  as.  he  pleased,  for  then  he  generally  saw  Lucy.  But  he 
never  made  the  smallest  attempt  to  renew  even  the  slight 
intimacy  which  had  formerly  existed  between  them. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

ME.     SARGENT    LABOBS. 

That  large  room  in  Guild  Court,  once  so  full  of  aged  cheer- 
fulness and  youthful  hope,  was  now  filled  with  an  atmosphere 
of  both  moral  and  spiritual  perturbation.  The  first  effect  of 
her  son's  will  upon  Mrs.  Boxall  was  rage  and  indignation 
against  Mr.  Worboise,  who,  she  declared,  must  have  falsified 
it.  She  would  not  believe  that  Richard  could  have  omitted 
her  name,  and  put  in  that  of  his  attorney.  The  moment  she 
heard  the  evil  tidings,  she  rose  and  went  for  her  bonnet,  with 
the  full  intention  of  giving  "the  rascal  a  bit  of  her  mind." 
It  was  all  that  her  grand-daughter  and  Mr.  Stopper  could  do 
to  prevent  her.  For  some  time  she  would  yield  no  ear  to  their 
representations  of  the  bad  consequences  of  such  a  proceeding. 
She  did  not  care.  If  there  was  justice  to  be  had  on  the  earth 
she  would  have  it,  if  she  went  to  the  Queen  herself  to  get  it.  I 
half  suspect  that,  though  she  gave  in  at  last,  she  did  carry  out 
her  intention  afterward  without  giving  any  one  the  chance  of 
preventing  her.  However  that  may  be,  the  paroxysm  of  her 
present  rage  passed  off  in  tears,  followed  by  gloomy  fits,  which 
were  diversified  by  outbreaks  of  temper  against  Lucy,  although 
she  spoke  of  her  as  a  poor  dear  orphan  reduced  to  beggary  by 
the  wickedness  and  greed  of  lawyers  in  general,  who  lived  like 
cannibals  upon  the  flesh  and  blood  of  innocents.     In  vain 


Mr.  Sargent  Labors.  245 

■would  Lucy  try  to  persuade  her  that  they  were  no  worse  now 
than  they  had  been,  reminding  her  that  they  were  even  hap- 
pier together  before  the  expectation  of  more  than  plenty  came 
in  to  trouble  them  ;  beside  her  late  imagination  of  wealth,  her 
present  feeling  was  that  of  poverty,  and  to  feel  poor  is  surely 
the  larger  half  of  being  poor. 

On  Lucy  my  reader  will  easily  believe  that  this  change  of 
prospect  had  little  effect.  Her  heart  was  too  much  occupied 
with  a  far  more  serious  affair  to  be  moved  about  money.  Had 
everything  been  right  with  Thomas,  I  have  no  doubt  she  would 
have  built  many  a  castle  of  the  things  she  would  do  ;  but  till 
Thomas,  was  restored  to  her,  by  being  brought  to  his  right 
mind,  no  one  thing  seemed  more  worth  doing  than  another. 
Sadness  settled  upon  her  face,  her  walk,  her  speech,  her  whole 
expression.  But  she  went  about  her  work  as  before,  and  did 
what  she  could  to  keep  her  sorrow  from  hurting  others.  The 
reality  of  the  late  growth  of  religious  feeling  in  her  was 
severely  tested  ;  but  it  stood  the  test ;  for  she  sought  comfort 
in  holding  up  her  care  to  God  ;  and  what  surer  answer  to  such 
prayer  could  there  be,  than  that  she  had  strength  to  do  her 
work  ?  We  are  saved  by  hope,  and  Lucy's  hope  never  died ; 
or  if  it  did  wither  away  under  the  dry  blasts  of  her  human 
judgment,  the  prayers  that  went  up  for  submission  to  His  will 
soon  returned  in  such  dews  as  caused  the  little  flower  once 
more  to  lift  its  head  in  the  sun  and  wind.  And  often  as  she 
could — not  every  day,  because  of  her  engagements  with  Miriam 
Morgenstern — she  went  to  Mr.  Fuller's  church,  and  I  think  I 
may  say  that  she  never  returned  without  what  was  worth 
going  for.  I  do  not  say  that  she  could  always  tell  what  she 
had  learned,  but  she  came  away  with  fresh  strength,  and  fresh 
resolution  to  do  what  might  show  itself  to  be  right.  And  the 
strength  came  chiefly  from  this,  that  she  believed  more  and 
more  what  the  apostle  Peter  came  to  be  so  sure  of  before  he 
died,  that  "He  careth  for  us."  She  believed  that  the  power 
that  made  her  a  living  soul  was  not,  could  not  be,  indifferent 
to  her  sorrows,  however  much  she  might  have  deserved  them, 
still  less  indifferent  because  they  were  for  her  good — a  ready 
excuse  for  indifference  with  men — and  if  only  he  cared  that 
she  suffered,  if  he  knew  that  it  was  sad  and  hard  to  bear,  she 
could  bear  it  without  a  word,  almost  without  a  thought  of 
restlessness.  And  then,  why  should  she  not  hope  for  Thomas 
as  well  as  for  herself  ?  If  we  are  to  love  our  neighbor  as  our- 
self,  surely  we  must  hope  and  pray  for  him  as  for  ourself ;  and 
if  Lucy  found  that  she  could  love  Thomas  at  least  as  herself, 


246     .  Guild  Court 

for  him  she  was  in  that  very  love  bound  to  pray  and  to  hope 
as  for  herself. 

Mr.  Sargent  was  soon  thoroughly  acquainted  with  all  Mrs. 
Boxall's  affairs.  And  he  had  so  little  hope  of  success  in  regard 
to  the  will,  that,  when  he  found  that  she  had  no  vouchers  to 
produce  for  her  own  little  property  placed  in  her  son's  hands, 
he  resolved,  before  going  any  further  in  a  course  which  must 
irritate  Mr.  Worboise,  to  see  whether  he  could  not  secure  that 
first.  Indeed  he  was  prepared,  seeing  how  ill  matters  looked 
for  his  clients,  to  offer  to  withdraw  from  the  contest,  provided 
the  old  lady's  rights  were  acknowledged.  With  this  view  he 
called  once  more  upon  Mr.  Worboise,  who  received  him  just 
as  graciously  as  before.  A  conversation  something  like  this 
followed : 

"  Mrs.  Boxall  informs  me,  Mr.  Worboise,  that  her  son,  at 
the  time  of  his  death,  was,  and  had  been  for  many  years,  in 
possession  of  some  property  of  hers,  amounting  to  somewhere 
between  two  and  three  thousand  pounds.  The  old  lady  is  a 
very  simple  woman — " 

"Is  she  ?"  interjected,  rather  than  interrupted,  Mr.  Wor- 
boise, in  a  cold  parenthesis.     Mr.  Sargent  went  on. 

"  Indeed  she  does  not  know  the  amount  exactly,  but  that 
could  be  easily  calculated  from  the  interest  he  was  in  the  habit 
of  paying  her." 

"  But  whatever  acknowledgment  she  holds  for  the  money 
will  render  the  trouble  unnecessary,"  said  Mr.  Worboise,  who 
saw  well  enough  to  what  Mr.  Sargent  was  coming. 

"  Unfortunately — it  was  very  wrong  of  a  man  of  business,  or 
anybody,  indeed — her  son  never  gave  her  any  acknowledgment 
in  writing. " 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Mr.  Worboise,  with  a  smile,  "  then  I  don't  ex- 
actly see  what  can  be  done.     It  is  very  awkward. " 

"  You  can  be  easily  satisfied  of  the  truth  of  the  state- 
ment." 

"I  am  afraid  not,  Mr.  Sargent." 

"  She  is  a  straightforward  old  lady,  and — " 

"  I  have  reason  to  doubt  it.  At  all  events,  seeing  that  she 
considers  the  whole  of  the  property  hers  by  right,  an  opinion 
in  which  you  sympathize  with  her — as  her  legal  adviser,  I  mean 
— it  will  not  be  very  surprising  if,  from  my  point  of  view,  I 
should  be  jealous  of  her  making  a  statement  for  the  sake  of 
securing  a  part  of  those  rights.  With  such  a.temptation,  and 
such  an  excuse,  it  is  just  possible — I've  heard  of  such  a  thing 
as  evil  that  good  might  come,  eh,  Mr.  Sargent  ? — even  if  she 


Mr.  Sargent  Labors.  247 

were  as  straightforward  as  you  think  her.  Let  her  produce 
her  vouchers,  I  say." 

"  I  haye  no  fear — at  least  I  hope  Mr.  Stopper  will  be  able 
to  prove  it.  There  will  be  evidence  enough  of  the  interest 
paid." 

"As  interest,  Mr.  Sargent  ?  I  suspect  it  will  turn  out  to 
be  only  an  annuity  that  the  good  fellow  allowed  her,  notwith- 
standing the  reasons  he  must  have  had  for  omitting  her  name 
from  his  will." 

"  I  confess  this  much  to  you,  Mr.  Worboise — that  our  cause 
is  so  far  from  promising  that  I  should  advise  Mrs.  Boxall  to  be 
content  with  her  own,  and  push  the  case  no  further." 

"  Quite  right,  Mr.  Sargent.  The  most  prudent  advice  you 
can  give  her." 

"  You  will  then  admit  the  debt,  and  let  the  good  woman 
have  her  own  ?  " 

"Admit  the  debt  by  no  means  ;  but  certainly  let  her  have 
her  own  as  soon  as  she  proves  what  is  her  own,"  answered  Mr. 
Worboise,  smiling. 

"  But  I  give  you  my  word,  Mr.  Worboise,"  said  Mr.  Sar- 
gent, doing  his  best  to  keep  his  temper,  "  that  I  believe  the 
woman's  statement  to  be  perfectly  true." 

"I  believe  you,  Mr.  Sargent,  but  I  do  not  believe  the 
woman,"  returned  Mr.  Worboise,  again  smiling. 

"  But  you  know  it  will  not  matter  much,  because,  coming 
into  this  property  as  you  do,  you  can  hardly  avoid  making 
some  provision  for  those  so  nearly  related  to  the  testator,  and 
who  were  dependent  upon  him  during  his  lifetime.  You  can- 
not leave  the  old  lady  to  starve." 

"  It  will  be  time  enough  to  talk  about  that  when  my  rights 
are  acknowledged.  Till  then  I  decline  to  entertain  the  ques- 
tion." 

There  was  a  something  in  Mr.  Worboise'' s  manner,  and  an 
irrepressible  flash  of  his  eye,  that  all  but  convinced  Mr.  Sar- 
gent that  there  was  nothing  not  in  the  bond  to  be  got  from 
him.  He  therefore  left  him,  and  started  a  new  objection  in 
opposing  the  probate  of  the  will.  He  argued  the  probability 
of  all  or  one  or  other  of  the  daughters  surviving  the  father — 
that  is,  not  of  their  being  yet  alive,  but  of  their  having  out- 
lived him.  Now  this  question,  though  plain  as  the  alphabet 
to  those  who  are  acquainted  with  law,  requires  some  explana- 
tion to  those  who  are  not,  numbering  possibly  the  greater  part 
of  my  readers. 

The  property  would  come  to  Mr.  Worboise  only  in  the  case 


248    .  Guild  Court. 

of  all  those  mentioned  in  the  will  dying  before  Mr.  Boxall.  A 
man  can  only  will  that  which  is  his  own  at  the  time  of  his 
death.  If  he  died  before  any  of  his  family,  Mr.  Worboise  had 
nothing  to  do  with  it.  It  went  after  the  survivor's  death  to 
Tier  heirs.  Hence  if  either  of  the  daughters  survived  father 
and  mother,  if  only  for  one  provable  moment,  the  property 
would  be  hers,  and  would  go  to  her  heir,  namely,  her  grand- 
mother. So  it  would  in  any  case,  had  not  Mr.  Worboise  been 
mentioned,  except  Mrs.  Eichard  Boxall  had  survived  her  hus- 
band and  family,  in  which  case  the  money  would  have  gone  to 
her  nearest  of  kin.  This  alternative,  however,  was  not  started, 
for  both  sides  had  an  equal  interest  in  opposing  vit — and  in- 
deed the  probable  decision  upon  probabilities  would  have  been 
that  the  wife  would  die  first.  The  whole  affair  then  turned 
upon  the  question  :  whether  it  was  more  likely  that  Eichard 
Boxall  or  every  one  of  his  daughters  died  first ;  in  which  ques- 
tion it  must  be  remembered  that  there  was  nothing  cumulative 
in  the  three  daughters.  He  was  as  likely  to  die  before  or  to 
survive  all  three  as  any  one  of  them,  except  individual  reasons 
could  be  shown  in  regard  to  one  daughter  which  did  not  exist 
in  regard  to  another. 

One  more  word  is  necessary.  Mr.  Sargent  was  not  in  good 
practice  and  would  scarcely  have  been  able — I  do  not  use  the 
word  afforded  because  I  do  not  know  what  it  means — to  meet 
the  various  expenses  of  the  plea.  But  the  very  day  he  had 
become  acquainted  with  the  contents  of  the  will,  he  told  Mr. 
Morgenstern  of  the  peculiar  position  in  which  his  governess 
and  her  grandmother  found  themselves.  Now  Mr.  Morgen- 
stern was  not  only  rich — that  is  common  ;  nor  was  he  only 
aware  that  he  was  rich  ;  if  that  is  not  so  common,  it  is  not  yet 
very  uncommon  ;  but  he  felt  that  he  had  something  to  spare. 
Lucy  was  a  great  favorite  with  him ;  so  was  Sargent.  He 
could  not  but  see  that  Sargent  was  fond  of  Lucy,  and  that  he 
was  suffering  from  some  measure  of  repulse.  He  therefore 
hoped,  if  not  to  be  of  any  material  assistance  to  Lucy — for 
from  Sargent's  own  representation  he  could  not  see  that  the 
matter  was  a  promising  one — at  least  to  give  the  son  of  his  old 
friend  a  chance  of.  commending  himself  to  the  lady  by  putting 
it  in  his  power  to  plead  her  cause.  And  conducted  as  Mr.  Sar- 
gent conducted  the  affair,  it  did  not  put  Mr.  Morgenstern  to 
an  amount  of  expense  that  cost  him  two  thoughts  ;  while  even 
if  it  had  been  serious,  the  pleasure  with  which  his  wife  re- 
garded his  generosity  would  have  been  to  him  reward 
enough. 


How  Thomas  Did  and  Fared,  249 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

HOW  THOMAS  DID  AND  FARED. 

I  flatter  myself  that  my  reader  is  not  very  much  interest- 
ed in  Thomas  ;  I  never  meant  he  should  be  yet.  I  confess, 
however,  that  I  am  now  girding  up  my  loins  with  the  express 
intention  of  beginning  to  interest  him  if  I  can.  For  I  have 
now  almost  reached  the  point  of  his  history  which  I  myself 
feel  to  verge  on  the  interesting.  When  a  worthless  fellow  be- 
gins to  meet  with  his  deserts,  then  we  begin  to  be  aware  that 
after  all  he  is  our  own  flesh  and  blood.  Our  human  heart  be- 
gins to  feel  just  the  least  possible  yearning  toward  him.  We 
hope  he  will  be  well  trounced,  but  we  become  capable  of  hop- 
ing that  it  may  not  be  lost  upon  him.  At  least  we  are  content 
to  hear  something  more  about  him. 

When  Thomas  left  the  gambling-house  that  dreary  morning, 
he  must  have  felt  very  much  as  the  devil  must  feel.  For  he 
had  plenty  of  money  and  no  home.  He  had  actually  on  this 
raw  morning,  when  nature  seemed  to  be  nothing  but  a  drizzle 
diluted  with  gray  fog,  nowhere  to  go  to.  More,  indeed;  he 
had  a  good  many  places,  including  the  principal  thoroughfares 
of  London,  where  he  must  not  go.  There  was  one  other  place 
which  he  did  all  he  could  to  keep  out  of,  and  that  was  the 
place  where  the  little  thinking  that  was  considered  necessary 
in  his  establishment  was  carried  on.  He  could  not  help  peep- 
ing in  at  the  window,  however,  and  now  and  then  putting  his 
ear  to  the  keyhole.  And  what  did  he  hear  ?  That  he, 
Thomas  Worboise,  gentlemen,  was  a  thief,  a  coward,  a  sneak. 
Now,  when  Thomas  heard  this,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
his  satisfaction  with  himself  gave  way  utterly  ;  nor  could  all 
his  admiration  for  Lara  or  the  Corsair — I  really  forget  whether 
they  are  not  one  and  the  same  phantom — reconcile  him  to  be- 
come one  of  the  fraternity.  The  Corsair  at  least  would  not 
have  sold  Medora's  ring  to  save  his  life.  Up  to  this  point,  he 
had  never  seen  himself  contemptible.  Nor  even  now  could  he 
feel  it  much,  for,  weary  and  sick,  all  he  wanted  was  some  place 
to  lay  down  his  head  and  go  to  sleep  in.  After  he  had  slept, 
he  would  begin  to  see  things  as  they  were,  and,  once  admitted 
possible  that  he  could  do  an  ungentlemanly  action,  fresh  accu- 
sations from  quarters  altogether  unsuspected  of  unfriendliness 
would  be  lodged  in  that  court  of  which  I  have  already  spoken. 
But  for  a  time  mere  animal  self-preservation  would  keep  the 


250  Guild  Court. 

upper  hand.  He  was  conscious  of  an  inclination  to  dive  into 
every  court  that  he  came  near — of  a  proclivity  toward  the 
darkness.  This  was  the  same  Thomas  Worboise  that  used  to 
face  the  sunshine  in  gay  attire,  but  never  let  the  sun  farther  in 
than  his  brain  ;  so  the  darkness  within  him  had  come  at  last 
to  the  outside,  and  swathed  all  in  its  funereal  folds.  Till  a 
man's  indwelling  darkness  is  destroyed  by  the  deep-going  light 
of  truth,  he  walks  in  darkness,  and  the  sooner  this  darkness 
comes  out  in  action  and  shows  itself  to  be  darkness,  the  better 
for  the  man.  The  presence  of  this  darkness,  however,  is  sooner 
recognized  by  one  man  than  by  another.  To  one  the  darkness 
within  him  is  made  manifest  by  a  false  compliment  he  has  just 
paid  to  a  pretty  girl ;  to  Thomas  it  could  only  be  revealed  by 
theft  and  the  actual  parting  for  money  with  the  jewel  given 
him  by  a  girl  whom  he  loved  as  much  as  he  could  love,  which 
was  not  much — yet ;  to  a  third — not  murder,  perjury,  hypoc- 
risy, hanging,  will  reveal  it ;  he  will  go  into  the  other  world 
from  the  end  of  a  rope,  not  mistaking  darkness  for  light,  but 
knowing  that  it  is  what  it  is,  and  that  it  is  his,  and  yet  deny- 
ing the  possession  of  the  one,  and  asserting  the  possession  of 
the  other. 

Thomas  forgot  all  about  where  he  was,  till  suddenly  he 
found  himself  far  west  in  the  Strand.  The  light  of  the  world 
was  coming  nearer  ;  no  policeman  was  in  sight :  and  the  arch- 
way leading  down  under  the  Adelphi  yawned  like  the  mouth 
of  hell  at  his  side.  He  darted  into  it.  But  no  sooner  was  he 
under  the  arches  than  he  wished  himself  out  again.  Strange 
forms  of  misery  and  vice  were  coming  to  life  here  and  there  in 
the  darkness  where  they  had  slept  away  the  night.  .  He  was  of 
their  sort,  yet  he  did  not  like  his  own  kin.  Nay,  some  of 
them  might  be  worthy  compared  to  him,  yet  he  shrunk  from 
them.  He  rushed  out.  Heaven  was  full  of  lights  and  hell  was 
full  of  horrors  ;  where  was  his  own  place  ?  He  hurried  back 
toward  the  city. 

But  as  the  light  grew  his  terror  increased.  There  was  no 
ground  for  immediate  alarm,  for  no  one  yet  knew  what  he  had 
done  ;  but  with  the  light  discovery  drew  nearer.  When  he 
reached  Farringdon  Street  he  turned  down  toward  Blackfriars 
Bridge,  then  eastward  again  by  Earl  Street  into  Thames 
Street.  He  felt  safer  where  the  streets  were  narroAv,  and  the 
houses  rose  high  to  shut  out  the  dayspring,  which  the  Lord  says 
to  Job  he  had  "  caused  to  know  his  place,  that  it  might  take 
hold  of  the  ends  of  the  earth,"  like  a  napkin,  "that  the  wicked 
might  be  shaken  out  of  it."    He  hurried  on,  not  yet  knowing 


How  Thomas  Did  and  Fared.  251 

what  lie  was,  only  seeing  revelation  at  hand  clothed  in  terror. 
And  the  end  of  it  was,  that  he  buried  his  head  in  the  public- 
house  where  the  mischief  of  the  preceding  night  had  begun, 
and  was  glad  to  lie  down  in  a  filthy  bed.  The  ways  of  trans- 
gressors are  always  hard  in  the  end.  Happy  they  who  find 
them  hard  in  the  beginning. 

Ill  at  ease  as  he  was,  both  in  body  and  mind,  he  was  yet  so 
worn  out  that  he  fell  fast  asleep  ;  and  still  on  the  stream  of 
sleep  went  drifting  toward  the  vengeance  that  awaited  him— 
the  vengeance  of  seeing  himself  as  he  was. 

When  he  woke,  it  was  afternoon.  He  had  to  make  several 
efforts  before  his  recollection  combined  with  his  observation 
to  tell  him  where  he  was.  He  felt,  however,  that  a  horror  was 
coming,  and  when  it  came  his  whole  being  was  crushed  before ' 
it.  It  must  be  confessed,  however,  that  it  was  the  disgrace, 
and  not  the  sin,  that  troubled  him.  But  honor,  although  a 
poor  substitute  for  honesty  or  religion,  is  yet  something  ;  and 
the  fear  of  disgrace  is  a  good  sword  to  hang  over  the  heads  of 
those  who  need  such  attendance.  Thomas's  heart  burned  like 
a  hot  coal  with  shame.  In  vain  he  tried  to  persuade  himself, 
in  vain  he  partially  succeeded  in  persuading  himself,  that  he 
was  not  himself  when  he  took  the  money.  Allowing  whatever 
excuse  might  lie  in  the  state  to  which  he  had  first  brought 
himself,  he  knew  that  no  defense  of  that  sort  would  have  any 
influence  in  restoring  to  him  the  place  he  had  lost.  He  was 
an  outcast.  He  lay  in  moveless  torture.  He  knew  himself, 
and  he  knew  his  crime  ;  and  he  knew  that  himself  had  com- 
mitted that  crime.  Wide  awake,  he  did  not  think  of  rising  ; 
for  the  whole  world  of  activity  lay  beyond  the  impassable  bar- 
rier of  his  shame.  There  was  nothing  for  him  to  do,  nowhere 
for  him  to  go.  At  length  he  heard  voices  in  the  room  below 
him  :  they  were  voices  he  knew  ;  and  he  was  lying  over  the 
scene  of  last  night's  temptation.  He  sprung  from  the  bed, 
hurried  on  his  clothes,  crept  down  the  stairs,  paid  for  his  lodg- 
ing at  the  bar,  and  went  out  into  the  street.  He  felt  sick  at 
the  thought  of  joining  them  ;  he  had  had  a  surfeit  of  wicked- 
ness. 

But  he  was  too  near  his  former  haunts  ;  and  the  officers  of 
justice  must  be  after  him.  He  turned  from  one  narrow  street 
into  another,  and  wandered  on  till  he  came  where  the  bow- 
sprit of  a  vessel  projected  over  a  wall  across  a  narrow  lane,  and 
he  knew  by  this  that  he  must  be  near  the  Thames.  The  sun 
was  going  down,  and  the  friendly  darkness  was  at  hand.  But 
he  could  not  rest.     He  knew  nothing  of  the  other  side,  and  it 


252    -  Guild  Court. 

seemed  to  him  therefore  that  he  would  be  safer  there.  He 
would  take  a  boat  and  be  put  across.  A  passage  between  two 
houses  led  toward  the  river.  Probably  there  were  stairs  at  the 
end.  He  turned  into  the  passage.  Half  a  dozen  bills  were  up 
on  the  walls.  He  stopped  to  look.  They  all  described  bodies 
found  in  the  river.  He  turned  away,  and  started  at  the  sight 
of  a  policeman  regarding  him  from  a  door  three  or  four  yards 
off.  It  was  a  police  station.  He  had  all  but  put  his  head  into 
the  lion's  mouth.  He  had  just  presence  of  mind  enough  to 
prevent  him  from  running,  but  not  enough  to  keep  his  legs 
steady  under  him.  His  very  calves  seemed  to  feel  the  eyes  of 
the  policeman  burning  upon  them,  and  shrank  away  with  a 
sense  of  unprotected  misery.  He  passed  several  stairs  before 
he  ventured  to  look  round.  Then  finding  no  reason  to  sup- 
pose he  was  watched,  he  turned  down  the  next  opening,  found 
a  boat,  and  telling  the  waterman  to  put  him  across  to  Kother- 
hithe,  of  which  district  he  just  knew  the  name,  sat  down  in 
the  stern.  The  man  rowed  up  the  river.  The  sun  was  going 
down  behind  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's,  which '  looked  like  the 
round  shoulder  of  a  little  hill ;  and  all  the  brown  masts  and 
spars  of  the  vessels  shone  like  a  forest  of  gold-barked  trees  in 
winter.  The  dark  river  caught  the  light,  and  threw  it  shim- 
mering up  on  the  great  black  hulls,  which  shone  again  in  the 
water  below ;  and  the  Thames,  with  all  its  dirt  and  all  its 
dead,  looked  radiant.  But  Thomas  felt  nothing  of  its  beauty. 
If  Nature  had  ever  had  a  right  of  way  in  his  heart,  she  was 
now  shut  out.  What  was  it  to  him,  despised  in  his  own  eyes, 
that  the  sun  shone  ?  He  looked  up  at  the  sky  only  to  wish 
for  the  night.  What  was  it  to  him  that  the  world  was  for  a 
moment  gay,  even  into  the  heart  of  London  ?  Its  smile  could 
not  reach  his  heart  :  it  needs  an  atmosphere  as  well  as  a  sun 
to  make  light.  The  sun  was  in  the  heavens,  yea,  the  central 
sun  of  truth  shone  upon  the  universe ;  but  there  was  no  at- 
mosphere of  truth  in  Thomas's  world  to  be  lighted  up  by  it ; 
or  if  there  was,  it  was  so  filled  with  smoke  and  vapor  that  for 
the  time  the  sun  could  not  make  it  smile.  As  they  passed 
under  a  towering  hull,  he  envied  a  monkey  that  went  scramb- 
ling out  of  one  of  the  port-holes  and  in  at  another.  And  yet 
the  scene  around  was  as  strange  as  it  was  beautiful.  The 
wide  river,  the  many  vessels,  the  multitudinous  wilderness  of 
gray  houses  on  every  side,  all  disorder  to  the  eye,  yet  blended 
by  the  air  and  the  light  and  the  thin  fog  into  a  marvelous 
whole  ;  the  occasional  vista  of  bridge-arches  ;  the  line  of  Lon- 
don Bridge  lying  parallel  with  the  lines  of  green  and  gray  and 


Hoio  Thomas  Did  and  Fared.  253 

gold  in  the  sky — its  people,  its  horses,  its  carriages  creeping 
like  insects  athwart  the  sunset — one  of  the  arches  cut  across 
near  the  top  hy  the  line  of  a  new  railway-bridge,  and  the  seg- 
ment filled  with  a  moving  train  ;  all  this  light  and  life  to  the 
eye,  while,  save  for  the  splash  of  the  oars,  and  the  general 
hum  like  an  aroma  of  sound  that  filled  the  air,  all  was  still  to 
the  ear — none  of  it  reached  the  heart  of  outcast  Thomas. 

Soon,  as  if  by  magic,  the  scene  changed.  The  boatman  had 
been  rowing  up  the  river,  keeping  in  the  quiet  water  as  the 
tide  hurried  out.  ISTow  he  was  crossing  toward  Cherry  Garden 
Stairs.  As  they  drew  near  the  Surrey-side,  all  at  once  Thomas 
found  himself  in  the  midst  of  a  multitude  of  boats,  flitting 
about  like  water-flies  on  the  surface  of  a  quiet  pool.  What 
they  were  about  he  could  not  see.  Now  they  would  gather  in 
dense  masses,  in  every  imaginable  position  to  each  other,  the 
air  filled  with  shouting,  objurgation,  expostulation,  and  good- 
humored  chaff,  varied  with  abuse.  Again  they  would  part 
asunder  and  vanish  over  the  wide  space.  G-uns  were  firing, 
flags  were  flying,  Thames  liveries  gleaming  here  and  there. 
The  boats  were  full  of  men,  women,  and  children  ;  some  in 
holiday  garments,  most  of  them  dark  with  the  darkness  of  an 
English  mob.  It  was  an  aquatic  crowd — a  people  exclusively 
living  on  and  by  the  river — assembled  to  see  a  rowing-match 
between  two  of  their  own  class  for  a  boat,  probably  given  by 
the  publicans  of  the  neighborhood — who  would  reap  ten  times 
the  advantage.  But  although  there  were  thousands  assembled, 
the  uproar  troubled  such  a  small  proportion  of  the  river's  sur- 
face, that  one  might  have  rowed  up  and  down  in  the  middle 
space  between  Eotherhithe  and  Wapping  for  hours  and  know 
nothing  about  it. 

But  Thomas  did  not  see  the  race,  not  because  he  was  in 
haste  to  get  ashore,  but  because  something  happened.  His 
waterman,  anxious  to  see  the  sport,  lingered  in  the  crowd 
lining  the  whole  of  that  side  of  the  river.  In  a  boat  a  little 
way  farther  up  was  a  large  family  party,  and  in  it  a  woman 
who  was  more  taken  up  with  the  baby  in  her  arms  than  with 
all  that  was  going  on  around  her.  In  consequence  of  her 
absorption  in  the  merry  child,  which  was  springing  with  all 
the  newly-discovered  delight  of  feet  and  legs,  she  was  so  dread- 
fully startled  when  the  bows  of  another  boat  struck  the  gun- 
wale just  at  her  back,  that  she  sprung  half  up  from  her  seat, 
and  the  baby,  jerking  itself  forward,  dropped  from  her  arms 
into  the  river.  Thomas  was  gazing  listlessly  at  the  water 
when  he  saw  the  child  sweep  past  him  a  foot  or  so  below  the 


254  .  Guild   Court. 

surface.  His  next  remembered  consciousness  was  in  the  water. 
He  was  a  fair  swimmer,  though  no  rider.  He  caught  the 
child,  and  let  himself  drift  with  the  tide,  till  he  came  upon 
the  cable  of  a  vessel  that  lay  a  hundred  yards  below.  Boats 
came  rushing  about  him ;  in  a  moment  the  child  was  taken 
from  him  and  handed  across  half  a  dozen  of  them  to  his 
mother ;  and  in  another  moment  he,  too,  was  in  a  boat. 
When  he  came  to  himself  a  gin-faced,  elderly  woman,  in  a 
small  threadbare  tartan  shawl,  was  wiping  his  face  with  a 
pocket-handkerchief,  and  murmuring  some  feminine  words 
over  him,  while  a  coarse-looking,  dough-faced  man  was  hold- 
ing a  broken  cup  with  some  spirit  in  it  to  his  mouth. 

"Go  ashore  with  the  gentleman,  Jim,"  said  the  woman. 
"  There's  the  India  Arms.  That's  a  respectable  place.  You 
must  go  to  bed,  my  dear,  till  you  gets  your  clo'es  dried." 

"I  haven't  paid  my  man,"  said  Tom,  feebly.  He  was  now 
shivering  with  cold  ;  for,  after  the  night  and  day  he  had  spent, 
he  was  in  no  condition  to  resist  the  effects  of  the  water. 

"Oh,  we'll  pay  him.  Here,  Fluke,"  cried  two  or  three — 
they  seemed  all  to  know  each  other. 

"  Come  along,  sir,"  cried  twenty  shrill  voices  over  his  head. 
He  looked  up  and  saw  that  they  were  alongside  of  a  great 
barge  which  was  crowded  with  little  dirty  creatures,  row  above 
row.  "Come  this  way — solid  barges,  sir,  all  the  way.  Ketch 
hold  of  the  gen'lm'n's  hand,  Sammy.     There.     Now,  Bill." 

They  hauled  and  lifted  Thomas  on  to  the  barge,  then  led 
him  along  the  side  and  across  to  the  next  yawning  wooden 
gulf,  and  so  over  about  seven  barges  to  a  plank,  which  led 
from  the  last  on  to  a  ladder  ascending  to  the  first  floor  of  a 
public-house,  the  second  floor  of  which,  supported  upon  piles, 
projected  over  high  water.  There  his  conductors,  two  ragged 
little  mudlarks,  left  him. 

Through  an  empty  kind  of  bar-room,  he  went  into  the  bar, 
which  communicated  with  the  street.  Here  first  he  found 
that  he  had  been  followed  by  the  same  man  who  had  given 
him  the  gin.  He  now  passed  before  him  to  the  counter,  and 
said  to  the  woman  who  was  pumping  a  pot  of  beer  : 

"  This  gen'leman,  Mrs.  Cook,  's  been  and  just  took  a  child 
out  o'  the  water,  ma'am.  He  'ain't  got  a  change  in  his  wescut- 
pocket,  so  if  you'll  do  what  ye  can  for  'im,  there's  many  on  us 
'11  be  obliged  to  ye,  ma'am." 

"Lor',  whose  child  was  it,  Jim  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  as  you  know  her,  ma'am.  The  man's  name's 
Potts.     He  keeps  a  public  down  about  Limehoase,  someveres." 


now  Thomas  Did  and  Fared.  255 

Thomas  stood  shivering — glad,  however,  that  the  man  should 
represent  his  case  for  him. 

"  The  gentleman  had  better  go  to  bed  till  we  get  his  clo'es 
dried  for  him,"  said  the  landlady.  "I  think  that's  the  best 
we  can  do  for  him." 

"  Take  a  drop  o'  sum  mat,  sir,"  said  the  man,  turning  to 
Thomas.  "  They  keeps  good  licker  here.  Put  a  name  upon 
it,  sir." 

"Well,  I'll  have  a  small  glass  of  pale  brandy,"  said  Thomas — 
"  neat,  if  you  please.  And  what'll  you  have  yourself  ?  I'm 
much  obliged  to  you  for  introducing  me  here,  for  I  must  look 
rather  a  queer  customer." 

"  It's  what  you'll  have,  not  what  I'll  have,  sir,  if  you'll  ex- 
cuse me"  returned  the  man. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Thomas,  who  had  just  received 
his  brandy.  He  drank  it,  and  proceeded  to  put  his  hand  in 
his  pocket — no  easy  matter  in  the  state  of  his  garments. 

"■  I'm  a  goin'  to  pay  for  this,"  interposed  the  man,  in  a 
determined  tone,  and  Thomas  was  hardly  in  a  condition  to 
dispute  it. 

At  the  same  moment  the  landlady,  who  had  left  the  bar 
after  she  had  helped  Thomas,  returned,  saying,  "Will  you 
walk  this  way,  sir  ?"  Thomas  followed,  and  found  himself  in 
a  neat  enough  little  room,  where  he  was  only  too  glad  to  un- 
dress and  go  to  bed.  As  he  pulled  off  his  coat,  it  occurred  to 
him  to  see  that  his  money  was  safe.  He  had  put  it,  mostly  in 
sovereigns,  into  a  pocket-book  of  elaborate  construction,  which 
he  generally  carried  in  the  breast-pocket  of  what  the  tailors 
call  a  lounging-coat.  It  was  gone.  His  first  conclusion  was, 
that  the  man  had  taken  it.  He  rushed  back  into  the  bar,  but 
he  was  not  there.  It  must  be  confessed  that,  in  the  midst  of 
his  despair,  a  fresh  pang  at  the  loss  of  his  money  shot  through 
Thomas's  soul.  But  he  soon  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
man  had  not  taken  it.  It  was  far  more  likely  that,  as  he  went 
overboard,  the  book  slipped  from  his  pocket  into  the  water, 
and  in  this  loss  an  immediate  reward  of  almost  his  first  act  of 
self-forgetfulness  had  followed.  The  best  thing  that  can  hap- 
pen to  a  man,  sometimes,  is  to  lose  his  money ;  and,  while 
people  are  compassionate  over  the  loss,  God  may  regard  it  as 
the  first  step  of  the  stair  by  which  the  man  shall  rise  above  it 
and  many  things  besides  with  which  not  only  his  feet,  but  his 
hands  and  his  head,  are  defiled.  Then  first  he  began  to  feel 
that  he  had  no  ground  under  his  feet — the  one  necessity  before 
such  a  man  could  find  a  true  foundation.     Until  he  lost  it,  he 


256  Guild  Court. 

did  not  know  how  much,  even  in  his  misery,  the  paltry  hun- 
dred pounds  had  been  to  him.  Now  it  was  gone,  things 
looked  black  indeed.  He  emptied  his  pockets  of  two  or  three 
sovereigns  and  some  silver,  put  his  clothes  out  at  the  door, 
and  got  into  bed.  There  he  fell  a  thinking.  Instead  of  tell- 
ing what  he  thought,  however,  I  will  now  turn  to  what  my 
reader  may  be,  and  I  have  been,  thinking  about  his  act  of 
rescue. 

What  made  him,  who  has  been  shown  all  but  incapable  of 
originating  a  single  action,  thus  at  the  one  right  moment  do 
the  one  right  thing  ?  Here  arises  another  question  :  Does  a 
man  always  originate  his  own  actions  ?  Is  it  not  possible,  to 
say  the  least  of  it,  that,  just  to  give  him  a  taste  of  what  well- 
doing means,  some  moment,  when  selfishness  is  sick  and  faint, 
may  be  chosen  by  the  power  in  whom  we  live  and  move  and 
have  our  being  to  inspire  the  man  with  a  true  impulse  ?  We 
must  think  what  an  unspeakable  comfort  it  must  have  been  to 
Thomas,  in  these  moments  of  hopeless  degradation  of  which 
he  felt  all  the  bitterness,  suddenly  to  find  around  him,  as  the 
result  of  a  noble  deed  into  which  he  had  been  unaccountably 
driven,  a  sympathetic,  yes,  admiring  public.  JSTo  matter  that 
they  were  not  of  his  class,  nor  yet  that  Thomas  was  not  the 
man  to  do  the  human  brotherhood  justice  ;  he  could  not  help 
feeling  the  present  power  of  humanity,  the  healing  medicine 
of  approbation,  in  the  faces  of  the  common  people  who  had 
witnessed  and  applauded  his  deed.  I  say  medicine  of  appro- 
bation ;  for  what  would  have  been  to  him  in  ordinary,  a  poison, 
was  now  a  medicine.  There  was  no  fear  of  his  thinking  him- 
self too  much  of  a  hero  at  present. 

It  may  be  objected  that  the  deed  originated  only  in  a  care- 
lessness of  life  resulting  from  self-contempt.  I  answer,  that 
no  doubt  that  had  its  share  in  making  the  deed  possible, 
because  it  removed  for  the  time  all  that  was  adverse  to  such  a 
deed  ;  but  self -despite,  however  true  and  well-grounded,  can- 
not inspirit  to  true  and  noble  action.  I  think  it  was  the 
divine,  the  real  self,  aroused  at  the  moment  by  the  breath  of 
that  wind  which  bloweth  where  it  listeth,  that  sprung  thus 
into  life  and  deed,  shadowing,  I  say  sliadoiving  only,  that 
wonderful  saying  of  our  Lord  that  he  that  loseth  his  life  shall 
find  it.  It  had  come — -been  given  to  him — that  a  touch  of 
light  might  streak  the  dark  cloud  of  his  fate,  that  he  might 
not  despise  himself  utterly,  and  act  as  ^unredeemable — kill 
himself  or  plunge  into  wickedness  to  drown  his  conscience. 
It  was  absolutely  necessary  that  he  should  bo  brought  to  want ; 


How  Thomas  Did  and  Fared.  257 

but  here  was  jnst  one  little  opening — not  out  of  want,  but  into 
the  light  of  a  higher  region  altogether,  the  region  of  well- 
being — by  which  a  glimmer  of  the  strength  of  light  could 
enter  the  chaos  of  his  being.  Any  good  deed  partakes  of  the 
life  whence  it  comes,  and  is  a  good  to  him  who  has  done  it. 
And  this  act  might  be  a  beginning. 

Poor  weak  Thomas,  when  he  got  his  head  down  on  the  pil- 
low, began  to  cry.  He  pitied  himself  for  the  helplessness  to 
which  he  was  now  reduced,  and  a  new  phase  of  despair  filled 
his  soul.  He  even  said  in  his  thoughts  that  his  ill-gotten  gain 
had,  like  all  the  devil's  money,  turned  to  rubbish  in  his  hands. 
What  he  was  to  do  he  could  not  tell.  He  was  tolerably  safe, 
however,  for  the  night,  and,  worn  and  weary,  soon  fell  into  a 
sleep  which  not  even  a  dream  disturbed. 

When  he  woke  all  was  dark,  and  he  welcomed  the  darkness 
as  a  friend.  It  soothed  and  comforted  him  a  little.  If  it  were 
only  always  dark  !  If  he  could  find  some  cave  to  creep  into 
where  he  might  revel  in — feed  upon  the  friendly  gloom  !  If 
he  could  get  among  the  snowy  people  of  the  north,  blessed 
with  half  a  year  of  gentle  sunlessness  !  Thomas  had  plenty  of 
fancy.  He  leaned  on  his  elbow  and  looked  out.  His  clothes 
had  been  placed  by  him  while  he  slept.  He  rose  and  put 
them  on,  opened  the  door  of  his  room,  saw  light  somewhere, 
approached  it  softly,  and  found  himself  in  a  small  room,  like  a 
large  oriel  window.  The  day  had  changed  from  gold  to  silver ; 
the  wide  expanse  of  the  great  river  lay  before  him,  and  up, 
and  down,  and  across,  it  gleamed  in  the  thoughtful  radiance 
of  the  moon.  Never  was  a  picture  of  lovelier  peace.  It  was 
like  the  reflex  of  the  great  city  in  the  mind  of  a  saint — all  its 
vice,  its  crime,  its  oppression,  money-loving,  and  ambition, 
all  its  fearfulness,  grief,  revenge,  and  remorse,  gently  covered 
with  the  silver  mantle  of  faith  and  hope.  But  Thomas  could 
not  feel  this.  Its  very  repose  was  a  reproach  to  him.  There 
was  no  repose  for  him  henceforth  forever.  He  was  degraded 
to  all  eternity.  And  herewith  the  thought  of  Lucy,  which 
had  been  hovering  about  his  mind  all  day,  like  a  bird  looking 
for  an  open  window  that  it  might  enter,  but  which  he  had  not 
dared  to  admit,  darted  into  its  own  place,  and  he  groaned 
aloud.  For  in  her  eyes,  as  well  as  in  his  own,  he  was  utterly 
degraded.  Not  a  thousand  good  actions,  not  the  applause  of 
a  thousand  crowds,  could  destroy  the  fact  that  he  had  done  as 
he  had  done.  The  dingy,  applauding  multitude,  with  its 
many  voices,  its  kind  faces,  its  outstretched  hands,  had  van- 
ished, as  if  the  moon  had  melted  it  away  from  off  the  water. 
17 


258  Guild  Court. 

Never  to  all  eternity  would  that  praising  people,  his  little  con- 
soling populace,  exist  again,  again  be  gathered  from  the  four 
corners  whither  they  had  vanished,  to  take  his  part,  to  speak 
for  him  that  he  was  not  all  lost  in  badness,  that  they  at  least 
considered  him  fit  company  for  them  and  their  children. 

Thoughts  like  these  went  to  and  fro  in  his  mind  as  he 
looked  out  upon  the  scene  before  him.  Then  it  struck  him 
that  all  was  strangely  still.  Not  only  was  there  no  motion  on 
the  river,  but  there  was  no  sound — only  an  occasional  outcry 
in  the  streets  behind.  The  houses  across  in  Wapping  showed. 
rare  lights,  and  looked  sepulchral  in  the  killing  stare  of  the 
moon,  which,  high  above,  had  not  only  the  whole  heavens  but 
the  earth  as  well  to  herself,  and  seemed  to  be  taking  her  own 
way  with  it  in  the  consciousness  of  irresistible  power.  What 
that  way  was,  who  can  tell  ?  The  troubled  brain  of  the  ma- 
niac and  the  troubled  conscience  of  the  malefactor  know  some- 
thing about  it ;  but  neither  can  tell  the  way  of  the  moon  with 
the  earth.  Fear  laid  hold  upon  Thomas.  He  found  himself 
all  alone  with  that  white  thing  in  the  sky ;  and  he  turned 
from  the  glorious  window  to  go  down  to  the  bar.  But  all  the 
house  was  dark,  the  household  in  bed,  and  he  alone  awake  and 
wandering  "in  the  dead  waste  and  middle  of  the  night."  A 
horror  seized  him  when  he  found  that  he  was  alone.  Why 
should  he  fear  ?  The  night  covered  him.  But  there  was  God. 
I  do  not  mean  for  a  moment  that  he  had  a  conscious  fear  of  the 
Being  he  had  been  taught  to  call  God.  Never  had  that  repre- 
sentation produced  in  him  yet  any  sense  of  the  reality,  any  the 
least  consciousness  of  presence — anything  like  the  feeling  of 
the  child  who  placed  two  chairs  behind  the  window-curtain, 
told  God  that  that  one  was  for  him,  and  sat  down  to  have  a  talk 
with  him.  It  was  fear  of  the  unknown  God,  manifested  in 
the  face  of  a  nature  which  was  strange  and  unfriendly  to  the 
evil-doer.  It  is  to  God  alone  that  a  man  can  flee  from  such 
terror  of  the  unknown  in  the  fierceness  of  the  sea,  in  the 
ghastly  eye  of  the  moon,  in  the  abysses  of  the  glaciers,  in  the 
misty  slopes  of  the  awful  mountain-side ;  but  to  God  Thomas 
dared  not  or  could  not  flee.  Full  of  the  horror  of  wakefulness 
in  the  midst  of  sleeping  London,  he  felt  his  way  back  into  the 
room  he  had  just  left,  threw  himself  on  a  bench,  and  closed 
his  eyes  to  shut  out  everything.  His  own  room  at  Highbury, 
even  that  of  his  mother  with  Mr.  Simon  talking  in  it,  rose  be- 
fore him  like  a  haven  of  refuge.  But  between  him  and  that 
haven  lay  an  impassable  gulf.  No  more  returning  thither.  He 
must  leave  the  country.    And  Lucy  ?    He  must  vanish  from 


How  Thomas  Did  and  Fared.  259 

her  eyes,  that  she  might  forget  him  and  marry  some  one  else. 
Was  not  that  the  only  justice  left  him  to  do  her  ?  But  would 
Lucy  forget  him  ?  Why  should  she  not  ?  Women  could  for- 
get honorable  men  whom  they  had  loved,  let  them  only  be  out 
of  their  sight  long  enough  ;  and  why  should  not  Lucy  forget 
a  —  ?  He  dared  not  even  think  the  word  that  belonged  to  him 
now.  A  fresh  billow  of  shame  rushed  over  him.  In  the  person 
of  Lucy  he  condemned  himself  afresh  to  utter  and  ineffaceable 
shame,  confusion,  and  hissing.  Involuntarily  he  opened  his 
eyes.  A  ghostly  whiteness,  the  sails  of  a  vessel  hanging  loose 
from  their  yards,  gleamed  upon  him.  The  whole  of  the  pale 
region  of  the  moon,  the  spectral  masts,  the  dead  houses  on  the 
opposite  shore,  the  glitter  of  the  river  as  from  eyes  that  would 
close  no  more,  gleamed  in  upon  him,  and  a  fresh  terror  of 
loneliness  in  the  presence  of  the  incomprehensible  and  the 
unsympathetic  overcame  him.  He  fell  on  his  knees,  and 
sought  to  pray ;  and  doubtless  in  the  ear  that  is  keen  with 
mercy  it  sounded  as  prayer,  though  to  him  that  prayed  it 
seemed  that  no  winged  thought  arose  to  the  infinite  from  a 
"heart  as  dry  as  dust."  Mechanically,  at  length,  all  feeling 
gone,  both  of  fear  and  of  hope,  he  went  back  to  his  room  and 
his  bed. 

When  he  woke  in  the  morning  his  landlady's  voice  was  in 
his  ears. 

"  Well,  how  do  we  find  ourselves  to-day,  sir  ?  None  the 
worse,  I  hope  ?  " 

He  opened  his  eyes.  She  stood  by  his  bedside,  with  her 
short  arms  set  like  the  handles  of  an  urn.  It  was  a  common 
face  that  rose  from  between  them,  red,  and  with  eyes  .that 
stood  out  with  fatness.  Yet  Thomas  was  glad  to  see  them 
looking  at  him,  for  there  was  kindness  in  them. 

"  I  am  all  right,  thank  you,"  he  said. 

"Where  will  you  have  your  breakfast  ?"  she  asked. 

"Where  you  please," answered  Thomas. 

"  Will  you  come  down  to  the  bar-parlor,  then  ?  " 

"I  shall  be  down  in  a  few  minutes." 

"Jim  Salter's  inquirin'  after  ye." 

"  Who  ?  "  said  Thomas,  starting. 

"  Only  Jim  Salter,  the  man  that  brought  you  in  last  night, 
sir.     I  told  him  to  wait  till  I  came  up." 

"  I  shall  be  down  in  one  minute,"  said  Thomas,  a  hope  of 
his  money  darting  into  his  mind. 

He  had  to  pass  through  the  bar  to  the  little  room  at  the 
back.    Against  the  counter  leaned  Jim,  smoking  a  short  pipe, 


260  Guild  Court 

with  his  hand  upon  a  pot  of  beer.  When  Thomas  entered,  he 
touched  his  cap  to  him,  saying  : 

"  Glad  to  see  you  lookin'  middlin',  guvnor.  Is  there  any- 
thing I  can  do  for  you  to-day  ?  " 

"Come  into  the  room  here,"  said  Thomas,  "and  have  some- 
thing. I'm  rather  late,  you  see.  I  haven't  had  my  breakfast 
yet." 

Salters  followed  him  with  his  pewter  in  his  hand.  Thomas 
disliked  his  appearance  less  than  on  the  preceding  evening. 
What  was  unpleasant  in  his  face  was  chiefly  owing  to  the 
small-pox.  He  was  dirty  and  looked  beery,  but  there  seemed 
to  be  no  harm  in  him.  He  sat  down  near  the  door  which  led 
to  the  ladder  already  mentioned,  and  put  his  pot  on  the  win- 
dow-sill. Thomas  asked  him  if  he  would  have  a  cup  of  coffee, 
but  he  preferred  his  beer  and  his  pipe. 

"  You  wanted  to  see  me  ?"  said  Thomas,  opening  a  conversa- 
tion. 

"  Oh  !  nothin'  perticlar,  guvnor.  I  only  wanted  to  see  if  I 
could  do  anything  for  you,"  said  Jim. 

"  I  was  in  hopes  you  had  heard  of  something  I  lost,  but 
I  suppose  it's  at  the  bottom  of  the  river,"  said  Thomas. 

"Not  your  watch  ? "  asked  Salter,  with  some  appearance  of 
anxious  interest. 

"A  great  deal  worse,"  answered  Thomas;  "a  pocket- 
book." 

"  Much  in  it  ?"  asked  Jim,  with  a  genuine  look  of  sympa- 
thetic discomfiture. 

"More  than  I  like  to  think  of.  Look,"  said  Thomas,  turn- 
ing out  the  contents  of  his  pocket,  "that  is  all  I  have  in  the 
world." 

"More  than  ever  I  had,"  returned  Salter;  "keep  me  a 
month." 

Thomas  relapsed  into  thought.  This  man  was  the  only  re- 
semblance of  a  friend  he  had  left.  He  did  not  like  to  let  him 
go  loose  in  the  wilds  of  London,  without  the  possibility  of 
finding  him  again.  If  this  man  vanished,  the  only  link 
Thomas  felt  between  him  and  the  world  of  men  would  be 
broken.  I  do  not  say  Thomas  thought  this.  He  only  felt  that 
he  would  be  absolutely  alone  when  this  man  left  him.  Why 
should  he  not  go  away  somewhere  with  him  ? 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Stepney  way,"  answered  Jim. 

"  I  want  to  see  that  part  of  London.  What  do  you  do  now  ? 
I  mean,  what  do  you  work  at  ?  " 


How  Thomas  Did  and  Fared.  261 

"  Oil  !  notkin'  perticlar,  guvnor.  Take  a  day  at  the  docks 
now  and  then.  Any  job  that  turns  up.  I'm  not  perticlar. 
Only  I  never  could  stick  to  one  thing.  I  like  to  be  moving.  I 
had  a  month  in  Bermondsey  last — in  a  tan-yard,  you  know.  I 
knows  a  bit  of  everthing." 

"  Well,  where  are  you  going  now  ?  " 

"  Nowheres — anywhere  you  like,  guvnor.  If  you  want  to  see 
them  parts,  as  you  say,  there's  nobody  knows  'em  better  than 
I  do — Tiger-bay  and  all." 

"  Come,  then,"  said  Thomas.  But  here  a  thought  struck 
him.  "  Wouldn't  it  be  better,  though,"  he  added — "they're 
queer  places,  some  of  those,  ain't  they  ? — to  put  on  a  workman's 
clothes  ?" 

Jim  looked  at  him.  Thomas  felt  himself  wince  under  his 
gaze.     But  he  was  relieved  when  he  said,  with  a  laugh  : 

"  You  won't  look  much  like  a  workman,  guvnor,  put  on 
what  you  like." 

"I  can't  wear  these  clothes,  anyhow,"  said  Thomas  ;  "they 
look  so  wretchedly  shabby  after  their  ducking.  Couldn't  you 
take  me  somewhere  where  they'd  change  them  for  a  suit  of 
fustian  ?  I  should  like  to  try  how  they  feel  for  a  few  days. 
We're  about  the  same  size — I  could  give  them  to  you  when  I 
had  done  with  them." 

Jim  had  been  observing  him,  and  had  associated  this  wish 
of  Thomas's  with  the  pocket-book,  and  his  furtive,  troubled 
looks.  But  Jim  was  as  little  particular  about  his  company  as 
about  anything  else,  and  it  was  of  no  consequence  to  him 
whether  Thomas  had  or  had  not  deeper  reasons  than  curiosity 
for  seeking  to  disguise  himself. 

"I  tell  you  what,"  he  said,  "if  you  want  to  keep,  quiet 
for  a  day  or  two,  I'm  your  man.  But  if  you  put  on  a 
new  suit  of  fustian  you'll  be  more  looked  at  than  in  your  own 
clo'es." 

Thomas  had  by  this  time  finished  his  breakfast ;  it  was  not 
much  he  could  eat. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  rising,  "if  you've  nothing  particular  to  do, 
I'll  give  you  a  day's  wages  to  go  with  me.  Only  let's  go  into 
Stepney,  or  away  somewhere  in  that  direction,  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible." 

He  called  the  landlady,  settled  his  very  moderate  bill,  and 
then  found  that  his  hat  must  be  somewhere  about  the  Nore  by 
this  time.  Jim  ran  to  a  neighboring  shop,  and  returned  with 
a  cloth  cap.  They  then  went  out  into  a  long,  narrow  street, 
Rotherhithe  Street,  I  think,  very  different  in  aspect  from  any 


262 


Guild  Court. 


he  had  seen  in  London  before.  Indeed  it  is  more  like  a  street 
in  Cologne.  Here  we  must  leave  him  with  his  misery  and  Jim 
Salter,  both  better  companions  than  Molken. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 


POPPIE    CHOOSES   A   PKOFESSIOtf. 

Whek  their  native  red  began  to  bloom  again  upon  the  cheeks 
of  Poppie,  she  began  to  grow  restless,  and  the  heart  of  the 
tailor  to  grow  anxious.  It  was  very  hard  for  a  wild  thing  to 
be  kept  in  a  cage  against  her  will,  he  thought.  He  did  not 
mind  sitting  in  a  cage,  but  then  he  was  used  to  it,  and  fre- 
quented it  of  his  own  free  will ;  whereas  his  child  Poppie  took 
after  her  grandfather — her  mother's  father,  who  was  a  sailor, 
and  never  set  his  foot  on  shore  but  he  wanted  to  be  off  again 
within  the  week. 

He  therefore  began  to  reason  with  himself  as  to  what  ought 
to  be  done  with  her.  So  soon  as  she  was  quite  strong  again  all 
her  wandering  habits  would  return,  and  he  must  make  some 
provision  for  them.  It  would  not  only  be  cruel  to  try  to  break 
her  of  them  all  at  once,  but  assuredly  fruitless.  Poppie  would 
give  him  the  slip  some  day,  return  to  her  Arab  life,  and  render 
all  sealing  of  the  bond  between  father  and  daughter  impos- 
sible. The  streets  were  her  home.  She  was  used  to  them. 
They  made  life  pleasant  to  her.  And  yet  it  would  not  do  to 
let  her  run  idle  about  the  streets.  He  thought  and  thought 
what  would  be  best. 

Meantime  the  influence  of  Mattie  had  grown  upon  Poppie. 
Although  there  was  as  yet  very  little  sign  of  anything  like 
thought  in  her,  the  way  she  deferred  to  the  superior  intelli- 
gence in  their  common  pursuits  proved  that  she  belonged  to 
the  body  of  humanity,  and  not  to  unassociated  animality.  Her 
love  of  bright  colors  now  afforded  the  first  hold  by  which  to 
commence  her  education.  Eemembering  her  own  childhood, 
Mattie  sought  to  interest  her  pupil  m  dolls,  proceeding  to 
dress  one,  which  she  called  Poppie,  in  a  gorgeous  scarlet  cloth 
which  the  tailor  procured  for  the  purpose.  .And  Poppie  was 
interested.  The  color  drew  her  to  the  process.  By  degrees, 
she  took  a  part ;  first  only  in  waiting  on  Mattie,  then  in  sew- 


Poppie  Chooses  a  Profession.  263 

ing  on  a  button  or  string,  at  which  she  was  awkward  enough, 
as  Mattie  took  more  than  necessary  pains  to  convince  her, 
learning,  however,  by  slow  degrees,  to  use  her  needle  a  little. 
But  what  was  most  interesting  to  find  was,  that  a  certain 
amount  of  self -consciousness  began  to  dawn  during  and  appar- 
ently from  the  doll-dressing.  Her  causative  association  with 
the  outer  being  of  the  doll,  led  to  her  turning  an  eye  upon  her 
own  outer  being  ;  and  Poppie's  redemption — I  do  not  say  re- 
generation— first  showed  itself  in  a  desire  to  be  dressed.  Con- 
sciousness begins  with  regard  to  the  body  first.  A  baby's  first 
lesson  of  consciousness  lies  in  his  blue  shoes.  But  one  may  ob- 
ject, "You  do  not  call  it  a  sign  of  redemption  in  a  baby  that, 
when  you  ask  where  baby's  shoes  are,  he  holds  up  his  little  feet 
with  a  smile  of  triumph."  I  answer,  It  must  be  remembered 
that  Poppie  had  long  passed  the  age  when  such  interest  indi- 
cates natural  development,  and  therefore  she  was  out  of  the 
natural  track  of  the  human  being,  and  a  return  to  that  track, 
indicating  an  awakening  of  the  nature  that  was  in  her,  may 
well  be  called  a  sign  of  redemption.  And  with  a  delicate  in- 
stinct of  his  own,  nourished  to  this  particular  manifestation  by 
his  trade,  the  tailor  detected  the  interest  shown  in  the  doll  by 
Poppie,  as  a  most  hopeful  sign,  and  set  himself  in  the  midst 
of  his  work  to  get  a  dress  ready  for  her,  such  as  she  would  like. 
Accustomed,  however,  only  to  work  in  cloth,  and  upon  male 
subjects,  the  result  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  remarkable— al- 
together admirable  in  Poppie's  eyes,  though  somewhat  strange 
in  those  of  others.  She  appeared  one  day  in  a  scarlet  jacket, 
of  fine  cloth,  trimmed  with  black,  which  fitted  her  like  her 
skin,  and,  to  complete  the  dress,  in  a  black  skirt,  likewise  of 
cloth,  which,  however  picturesque  and  accordant  with  the 
style  of  Poppie's  odd  beauty,  was  at  least  somewhat  peculiar 
and  undesirable  in  a  city  like  London,  which  persecutes  men's 
tastes  if  it  leaves  their  convictions  free. 

This  dress  Mr.  Spelt  had  got  ready  in  view  of  a  contem- 
plated walk  with  Poppie.  He  was  going  to  take  her  to  High- 
gate  on  a  Sunday  morning,  with  his  Bible  in  his  pocket.  I 
have  already  said  that  he  was  an  apparent  anomaly,  this  Mr. 
Spelt,  loving  his  New  Testament,  and  having  no  fancy  for 
going  to  church.  How  this  should  come  about  I  hardly  under- 
stand. Not  that  I  do  not  know  several  instances  of  it  in  most 
excellent  men,  but  not  in  his  stratum.  Yet  what  was  his 
stratum  ?  The  Spirit  of  God  teaches  men  in  a  thousand  ways, 
and  Mr.  Spelt  knew  some  of  the  highest  truths  better  than 
nine  out  of  ten  clergymen,  I  venture  to  say.     Yet  Mr.  Spelt 


264  Guild  Court 

was  inwardly  reproached  that  he  did  not  go  to  church,  and 
made  the  attempt  several  times,  with  the  result  that  he  doubted 
the  truth  of  the  whole  thing  for  half  the  week  after.  Some 
church-going  reader  must  not  condemn  him  at  least  for  pre- 
ferring Highgate  to  the  churchyard  gate. 

It  was  a  bright  frosty  morning,  full  of  life  and  spirit,  when 
the  father  and  daughter — for  thus  we  accept  the  willful  con- 
viction of  the  tailor,  and  say  no  more  about  it— set  out  for 
Highgate.  Poppie  was  full  of  spirits,  too  frill  for  her  father's 
comfort,  for,  every  time  she  drew  her  hand  from  his,  and 
danced  away  sideways  or  in  front,  he  feared  lest  he  had  seen 
the  last  of  her,  and  she  would  never  more  return  to  lay  her 
hand  in  his.  On  one  of  these  occasions,  it  was  to  dart  a  hun- 
dred yards  in  advance  upon  another  little  girl,  who  was  list- 
lessly standing  at  a  crossing,  take  the  broom  from  her  hand, 
and  begin  to  sweep  vigorously.  Nor  did  she  cease  sweeping 
till  she  had  made  the  crossing  clean,  by  which  time  her  father 
had  come  up.  She  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  received  in  it  a 
ready  penny,  and  tossed  it  to  the  girl.  Then  she  put  her  hand 
in  his  again,  and  trotted  along  with  him,  excited  and  sedate 
both  at  once. 

"Would  you  like  to  sweep  a  crossing,  Poppie  ?"  asked  he. 

"Wouldn't  I  just,  daddie  ?  I  should  get  no  end  o' ha'- 
pence." 

"  What  would  you  do  with  them  when  you  got  them  ?  " 

"  Give  them  to  poor  girls.  I  don't  want  them,  you  see, 
now  I'm  a  lady." 

"  What  makes  a  lady  of  you,  then  ?" 

"  I've  got  a  father  of  my  own,  all  to  myself — that  makes  a 
lady  of  me,  I  suppose.  Anyhow  I  know  I  am  a  lady  now. 
Look  at  my  jacket." 

I  do  not  know  that  Mr.  Spelt  thought  that  her  contempt  of 
money,  or  rather  want  of  faith  in  it,  went  a  good  way  to  make 
her  a  very  peculiar  lady  indeed  ;  but  he  did  think  that  he 
would  buy  her  a  broom  the  first  day  he  saw  the  attraction  of 
the  streets  grow  too  strong  for  Guild  Court. 

This  day,  things  did  not  go  quite  to  the  tailor's  mind.  He 
took  Poppie  to  a  little  public-house  which  he  had  known  for 
many  years,  for  it  was  kept  by  a  cousin  of  his.  There  he  or- 
dered, his  half -pint  of  beer,  carried  it  with  him  to  a  little  ar- 
bor in  the  garden,  now  getting  very  bare  of  its  sheltering 
leaves,  sat  down  with  Poppie,  pulled  out  his  Bible,  and  began 
to  read  to  her.  But  he  could  not  get  her  to  mind  him.  Ev- 
ery other  moment  she  was  up  and  out  of  the  arbor,  now  after 


Poppie  Chooses  a  Profession.  265 

one  thing,  now  after  another ;  now  it  was  a  spider  busily  roll- 
ing up  a  fly  in  his  gluey  weft  ;  now  it  was  a  chicken  escaped 
from  the  hen-house,  and  scratching  about  as  if  it  preferred  find- 
ing its  own  living  even  in  an  irregular  fashion  ;  and  now  a 
bird  of  the  air  that  sowed  not  nor  reaped,  and  yet  was  taken 
care  of. 

"Come  along,  Poppie,"  said  her  father;  "I  want  you  to 
listen. " 

"Yes^  daddie,"  Poppie  would  answer,  returning  instantly; 
but  in  a  moment,  ere  a  sentence  was  finished,  she  would  be 
half  across  the  garden.     He  gave  it  up  in  despair. 

"Why  ain't  you  reading,  daddie?  "she  said,  after  one  of 
these  excursions. 

"  Because  you  won't  listen  to  a  word  of  it,  Poppie." 

"Oh  !  yes  ;  here  I  am,"  she  said. 

"Come,  then  ;  I  will  teach  you  to  read." 

"Yes,"  said  Poppie,  and  was  off  after  another  sparrow. 

"Do  you  know  that  God  sees  you,  Poppie  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Spelt. 

"  I  don't  mind,"  answered  Poppie. 

He  sighed  and  closed  his  book,  drank  the  last  of  his  half- 
pint  of  beer,  and  rose  to  go.  Poppie  seemed  to  feel  that  she 
had  displeased  him,  for  she  followed  without  a  word.  They 
went  across  the  fields  to  Hampstead,  and  then  across  more 
fields  to  the  Finchley  Eoad.  In  passing  the  old  church,  the 
deeper  notes  of  the  organ  reached  their  ears. 

"  There,"  said  Poppie  ;  "I  suppose  that's  God  making  his 
thunder.     Ain't  it,  daddie  ?  " 

"  No.     It's  not  that,"  answered  Spelt. 

"  It's  there  he  keeps  it,  anyhow,"  said  Poppie.  "  I've  heard 
it  coming  out  many  a  time." 

"Was  you  never  in  one  o'  them  churches?"  asked  her 
father. 

"  No,"  answered  Poppie. 

"  Would  you  like  to  go  ?  "  he  asked  again,  with  the  hope 
that  something  might  take  hold  of  her. 

"If  you  went  with  me,"  she  said. 

Now  Mr.  Spelt  had  heard  of  Mr.  Fuller  from  Mr.  Kitely, 
and  had  been  once  to  hear  him  preach.  He  resolved  to  take 
Poppie  to  his  church  that  evening. 

My  reader  will  see  that  the  child  had  already  made  some 
progress.  She  talked  at  least.  How  this  began  I  cannot  ex- 
plain. No  fresh  sign  of  thought  or  of  conscience  in  a  child 
comes  into  my  notice  but  I  feel  it  like  a  miracle — a  something 


266     .  Guild  Court. 

that  cannot  be  accounted  for  save  in  attributing  it  to  a  great 
Thought  that  can  account  for  it. 

They  got  upon  an  omnibus,  to  Poppie's  great  delight,  and 
rode  back  into  the  city.  After  they  had  had  some  tea  they 
went*to  the  evening  service,  where  they  saw  Lucy,  and  Mattie 
with  her  father.  Mattie  was  very  devout,  and  listened  even 
when  she  could  not  understand  ;  Poppie  only  stared,  and 
showed  by  her  restlessness  that  she  wanted  to  be  out  again. 
When  they  were  again  in  the  street  she  asked  just  one 
question  :  "  Why  did  Jesus  Christ  put  on  that  ugly  black 
thing  ?  " 

"  That  wasn't  Jesus  Christ,"  said  Mattie,  with  a  little  Phar- 
isaical horror. 

"  Oh  !  wasn't  it  ?  "  said  Poppie,  in  a  tone  of  disappointment. 
"I  thought  it  was." 

"  Oh,  Poppie,  Poppie  ! "  said  poor  Mr.  Spelt ;  "  haven't  I 
told  you  twenty  times  that  Jesus  Christ  was  the  Son  of  God  ?  " 

But  he  might  have  told  her  a  thousand  times.  Poppie  could 
not  recall  what  she  had  no  apprehension  of  when  she  heard  it. 
What  was  Mr.  Spelt  to  do  ?  He  had  tried  and  tried,  but  he 
had  got  no  idea  into  her  yet.  But  Poppie  had  no  objection 
either  to  religion  in  general,  or  to  any  dogma  whatever  in  par- 
ticular. It  was  simply  that  she  stood  in  no  relation  of  con- 
sciousness toward  it  or  any  part  or  phrase  of  it.  Even  Mattie's 
attempts  resulted  in  the  most  grotesque  conceptions  and  fan- 
cies. But  that  she  was  willing  to  be  taught,  an  instance  which 
soon  followed  will  show. 

Her  restlessness  increasing,  and  her  father  dreading  lest  she 
should  be  carried  away  by  some  sudden  impulse  of  lawlessness, 
he  bought  her  a  broom  one  day — the  best  he  could  find,  of 
course — and  told  her  she  might,  if  she  pleased,  go  and  sweep 
a  crossing.  Poppie  caught  at  the  broom,  and  vanished  without 
a  word.  Not  till  she  was  gone  beyond  recall  did  her  father 
bethink  himself  that  the  style  of  her  dress  was  scarcely  ac- 
cordant with  the  profession  she  was  about  to  assume.  She 
was  more  like  a  child  belonging  to  a  traveling  theater  than 
any  other.  He  remembered,  too,  that  crossing-sweepers  are 
exceedingly  tenacious  of  their  rights,  and  she  might  get  into 
trouble.  He  could  not  keep  quiet ;  his  work  made  no  prog- 
ress ;  and  at  last  he  yielded  to  his  anxiety  and  went  out  to 
look  for  her.  But  he  wandered  without  success,  lost  half  his 
day,  and  returned  disconsolate. 

At  their  dinner-hour  Poppie  came  home  ;  but,  alas  !  with 
her  brilliant  jacket  nearly  as  dirty  as  her  broom,  the  appear- 


Poppie  Chooses  a  Profession.  267 

ance  of  which  certainly  indicated  work.  Spelt  stooped  as 
usual,  but  hesitated  to  lift  her  to  his  nest. 

"  Oh,  Poppie,"  he  expostulated,  "  what  a  mess  you've  made 
of  yourself  ! " 

"  'Tain't  me,  daddie,"  she  answered.  "  It's  them  nasty  boys 
would  throw  dirt  at  me.  'Twasn't  their  crossing  I  took — they 
hadn't  no  call  to  chivy  me.     But  I  give  it  them." 

"What  did  you  do,  Poppie?"  asked  her  father,  a  little 
anxiously. 

"  I  looks  up  at  St.  Pauls's,  and  I  says,  '  Please,  Jesus  Christ, 
help  me  to  give  it  'em.'  And  then  I  flies  at  'em  with  my 
broom,  and  I  knocks  one  o'  them  down,  and  a  cart  went  over 
his  leg,  and  he's  took  to  the  'ospittle.  I  believe  his  leg's 
broke." 

"  Oh,  Poppie  !  And  didn't  they  say  anything  to  you  ?  I 
wonder  they  didn't  take  you  up." 

"They  couldn't  find  me.  I  thought  Jesus  Christ  would 
help  me.     He  did." 

What  was  Mr.  Spelt  to  say  ?  He  did  not  know  ;  and,  there- 
fore, unlike  some,  who  would  teach  others  even  when  they 
have  nothing  to  impart,  he  held  his  peace.  But  he  took 
good  care  not  to  let  her  go  out  in  that  dress  any  more. 

"  Didn't  you  get  any  ha'pence  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Yes.  I  gave 'em  all  to  the  boy.  I  wouldn't  if  the  cart 
hadn't  gone  over  him,  though.     Catch  me  ! " 

"  Why  did  you  give  them  to  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.     I  wanted  to." 

"  Did  he  take  them  ?  " 

"Course  he  did.     Why  shouldn't  he  ?    I'd  ha' tookt 'em." 

Mr.  Spelt  resolved  at  last  to  consult  Mr.  Fuller  about  the 
child.  He  went  to  see  him,  and  told  him  all  he  knew  con- 
cerning her.  To  his  surprise,  however,  when  he  came  to  her 
onset  with  the  broom,  Mr.  Fuller  burst  into  a  fit  of  the  hearti- 
est laughter.  Spelt  stood  with  his  mouth  open,  staring  at  the 
sacred  man.     Mr.  Fuller  saw  his  amazement. 

"  You  don't  think  it  was  very  wicked  of  your  poor  child  to 
pray  to  God  and  shoulder  her  broom,  do  you  ? "  he  said,  still 
laughing. 

"  We're  told  to  forgive  our  enemies,  sir.  And  Poppie  prayed 
against  hers." 

"  Yes,  yes.  You  and  I  have  heard  that,  and,  I  hope,  learned 
it.  But  Poppie,  if  she  has  heard  it,  certainly  does  not  under- 
stand it  yet.     Do  you  ever  read  the  Psalms  ?  " 

"Yes,  sometimes.     Some  of  them  pretty  often,  sir." 


268  Guild  Court 

"You  will  remember,  then,  how  David  prays  against  his 
enemies  ?  " 
.  "Yes,  sir.     It's  rather  awful,  sometimes." 

"  What  do  you  make  of  it  ?  Was  it  wicked  in  David  to  do  so  ?  " 

"I  daren't  say  that,  sir." 

"  Then  why  should  you  think  it  was  in  Poppie  ?  " 

"I  think  perhaps  David  didn't  know  better." 

"  And  you  think  Poppie  ought  to  know  better  than  David  ?" 

"Why,  you  see,  sir,  if  I'm  right,  as  I  fancy,  David  lived 
before  our  Saviour  came  into  the  world  to  teach  us  better." 

"  And  so  you  think  Poppie  more  responsible  than  a  man 
like  David,  who  loved  God  as  not  one  Christian  in  a  million, 
notwithstanding  that  the  Saviour  is  come,  has  learned  to  love 
him  yet  ?  A  man  may  love  God,  and  pray  against  his  enemies. 
Mind  you,  I'm  not  sure  that  David  hated  them.  I  know  he 
did  not  love  them,  but  I  am  not  sure  that  he  hated  them. 
And  I  am  sure  Poppie  did  not  hate  hers,  for  she  gave  the  little 
rascal  her  coppers,  you  know." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Spelt,  grateful  to  the  heart's  core 
that  Mr.  Fuller  stood  up  for  Poppie. 

"Do  you  think  God  heard  David's  prayers  against  his  ene- 
mies ? "  resumed  Mr.  Fuller. 

"He  gave  him  victory  over  them,  anyhow." 

"And  God  gave  Poppie  the  victory,  too.  I  think  God 
heard  Poppie's  prayer.  And  Poppie  will  be  the  better  for  it. 
She'll  pray  for  a  different  sort  of  thing  before  she's  done  pray- 
ing. It  is  a  good  thing  to  pray  to  God  for  anything.  It  is"  a 
grand  thing  to  begin  to  pray." 

"I  wish  you  would  try  and  teach  her  something,  sir.  I 
have  tried  and  tried,  and  I  don't  know  what  to  do  more.  I 
don't  seem  to  get  anything  into  her." 

"You're  quite  wrong,  Mr.  Spelt.  You  have  taught  her. 
She  prayed  to  God  before  she  fell  upon  her  enemies  with  her 
broom." 

"But  I  do  want  her  to  believe.  I  confess  to  you,  sir,  I've 
never  been  much  of  a  church-goer,  but  I  do  believe  in  Christ." 

"  It  doesn't  much  matter  whether  you  go  to  church  or  not 
if  you  believe  in  him.  Tell  me  how  you  came  to  hear  or  know 
about  him  without  going  to  church." 

"My  wife  was  a  splendid  woman,  sir — Poppie's  mother, 
but — you  see,  sir — she  wasn't — she  didn't — she  was  a  bit  of  a 
disappointment  to  me." 

"Yes.     And  what  then?" 

"I  took  to  reading  the  Bible,  sir." 


Poppie  Chooses  a  Profession.  269 

"Why  did  you  do  that  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  sir.  But  somehow,  bein'  unhappy,  and 
knowin'  no  way  out  of  it,  I  took  to  the  Bible,  sir.  I  don't 
know  why  or  wherefore,  but  that's  the  fact.  And  when  I 
began  to  read,  I  began  to  think  about  it.  And  from  then  I 
began  to  think  about  everything  that  came  in  my  way — 
a  tryin'  to  get  things  all  square  in  my  own  head,  you  know,  sir." 

Mr.  Fuller  was  delighted  with  the  man,  and  having  prom- 
ised to  think  what  he  could  do  for  Poppie,  they  parted.  And 
here  I  may  mention  that  Spelt  rarely  missed  a  Sunday  morn- 
ing at  Mr.  Fuller's  church  after  this.  For  he  had  found  a 
fellow-man  who  could  teach  him,  and  that  the  Bible  was  not 
the  sole  means  used  by  God  to  make  his  children  grow  :  their 
brothers  and  sisters  must  have  a  share  in  it  too. 

Mr.  Fuller  set  about  making  Poppie's  acquaintance.  And 
first  he  applied  to  Mattie,  in  order  to  find  out  what  kind  of 
thing  Poppie  liked.  Mattie  told  him  lollipops.  But  Mr.  Ful- 
ler preferred  attacking  the  town  of  Mansoul  at  the  gate  of  one 
of  the  nobler  senses,  if  possible.  He  tried  Lucy,  who  told  him 
about  the  bit  of  red  glass  and  the  buttons.  So  Mr.  Fuller 
presented  his  friendship's  offering  to  Poppie  in  the  shape  of 
the  finest  kaleidoscope  he  could  purchase.  It  was  some  time 
before  she  could  be  taught  to  shut  one  eye  and  look  with  the 
other ;  but  when  at  length  she  succeeded  in  getting  a  true 
vision  of  the  wonders  in  the  inside  of  the  thing,  she  danced 
and  shouted  for  joy.  This  confirmed  Mr.  Fuller's  opinion 
that  it  was  through  her  eyes,  and  not  through  her  ears,  that 
■  he  must  approach  Poppie's  heart.  She  had  never  been  accus- 
tomed to  receive  secondary  impressions  :  all  her  impressions, 
hitherto,  had  come  immediately  through  the  senses.  Mr. 
Fuller  therefore  concluded  that  he  could  reach  her  mind  more 
readily  through  the  seeing  of  her  eyes  than  such  hearing  of  the 
ears  as  had  to  be  converted  by  the  imagination  into  visual 
forms  before  it  could  make  any  impression.  He  must  get  her 
to  ask  questions  by  showing  her  eyes  what  might  suggest  them. 
And  Protestantism  having  deprived  the  Church  of  almost  all 
means  of  thus  appealing  to  the  eye  as  an  inlet  of  truth,  he  was 
compelled  to  supply  the  deficiency  as  he  best  could.  I  do  not 
say  that  Mr.  Fuller  would  have  filled  his  church  with  gorgeous 
paintings  as  things  in  general,  and  artists  in  especial,  are. 
He  shrunk  in  particular  from  the  more  modern  representations 
of  our  Lord  given  upon  canvas,  simply  because  he  felt  them  to 
be  so  unlike  him,  showing  him  either  as  effeminately  soft,  or 
as  pompously  condescending ;  but  if  he  could  have  filled  his 


270  Guild  Court. 

church  with  pictures  in  which  the  strength  exalted  the  tender- 
ness, and  the  majesty  was  glorified  by  the  homeliness,  he 
would  have  said  that  he  did  not  see  why  painted  windows 
should  be  more  consistent  with  Protestantism  than  painted 
walls.  Lacking  such  aids,  he  must  yet  provide  as  he  could 
that  kind  of  instruction  which  the  early  Church  judged  need- 
ful for  those  of  its  members  who  were  in  a  somewhat  similar 
condition  to  that  of  Poppie.  He  therefore  began  searching 
the  print-shops,  till  he  got  together  about  a  dozen  of  such 
engravings,  mostly  from  the  old  masters,  as  he  thought  would 
represent  our  Lord  in  a  lovable  aspect,  and  make  the  child 
want  to  have  them  explained.  For  Poppie  had  had  no  big 
family  Bible  with  pictures,  to  pore  over  in  her  homeless  child- 
hood ;  and  now  she  had  to  go  back  to  such  a  beginning. 

By  this  time  he  had  so  far  ingratiated  himself  with  her  that 
she  was  pleased  to  accompany  Mattie  to  tea  with  him,  and 
then  the  pictures  made  their  appearance.  This  took  place 
again  and  again,  till  the  pictures  came  to  be  looked  for  as  part 
of  the  entertainment — Mr.  Fuller  adding  one  now  and  then, 
as  he  was  fortunate  in  his  search,  for  he  never  passed  a  fresh 
print-shop  without  making  inquiry  after  such  engravings. 

Meantime  Poppie  went  out  crossing-sweeping  by  fits  and 
starts.     Her  father  neither  encouraged  nor  prevented  her. 

One  afternoon  of  a  cold  day,  when  the  wind  from  the  east 
was  blowing  the  darkness  over  the  city,  and  driving  all  who 
had  homes  and  could  go  to  them  home  for  comfort,  they  were 
walking  hand  in  hand  in  Farringdon  Street — a  very  bleak, 
open  place.  Poppie  did  not  feel  the  cold  nearly  so  much  as 
her  father,  but  she  did  blow  upon  the  fingers  of  her  disengaged 
hand  now  and  then  notwithstanding. 

"Have  a  potato  to  warm  you,  Poppie,"  said  her  father,  as 
they  came  up  to  one  of  those  little  steam-engines  for  cooking 
potatoes,  which  stand  here  and  there  on  the  edges  of  the  pave- 
ments about  London,  blowing  a  fierce  cloud  of  steam  from 
their  little  funnels,  so  consoling  to  the  half-frozen  imagination. 

"Jolly !"  cried  Poppie,  running  up  to  the  man,  and  laying 
her  hand  on  the  greasy  sleeve  of  his  velveteen  coat. 

"I  say,  Jim,  give  us  a  ha'porth,"  she  said. 

"Why,  'tain't  never  you,  Poppie  ?"  returned  the  man. 

"Why  ain't  it  ?"  said  Poppie.  "Here's  my  father.  I've 
found  one,  and  a  good  'un,  Jim." 

The  man  looked  at  Poppie's  dress,  then  at  Mr.  Spelt,  touched 
the  front  of  his  cloth  cap,  and  said  : 

"  Good  evenin',  guvnor."     Then  in  an  undertone  he  added. 


Poppie  Chooses  a  Profession.  271 

"  I  say,  guvnor,  you  never  did  better  in  your  life  than  takin' 
that  'ere  pretty  creetur  off  the  streets.  You  look  well  arter 
her.  She's  a  right  good  un,  /  know.  Bless  you,  she  ain't  no 
knowledge  what  wickedness  means." 

In  the  warmth  of  his  heart,  Mr.  Spelt  seized  the  man's 
hand,  and  gave  it  a  squeeze  of  gratitude. 

"  Come,  Jim,  ain't  your  taters  done  yet  ?"  said  Poppie. 

"Bustin'  o'  mealiness,"  answered  Jim,  throwing  back  the 
lid,  and  taking  out  a  potato,  which  he  laid  in  the  hollow  of  his 
left  hand.  Then  he  caught  up  an  old  and  I  fear  dirty  knife, 
and  split  the  potato  lengthways.  Then,  with  the  same  knife, 
he  took  a  piece  of  butter  from  somewhere  about  the  appara- 
tus— though  how  it  was  not  oil  instead  of  butter  I  cannot 
think — laid  it  into  the  cleft  as  if  it  had  been  a  trowelful  of 
mortar,  gave  it  a  top-dressing  of  salt  and  a  shake  of  the  pepper- 
box, and  handed  it  to  Poppie. 

"  Same  for  you,  sir  ?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  I  don't  mind  if  I  do  have  one,"  answered  Spelt. 
"  Are  they  good  ?  " 

"  The  best  and  the  biggest  at  the  price  in  all  London,"  said 
Jim.  "Taste  one,"  he  went  on,  as  he  prepared  another, 
"and  if  you  like  to  part  with  it  then,  I'll  take  it  back  and  eat 
it  myself." 

Spelt  paid  for  the  potatoes — the  sum  of  three  ha'pence — 
and  Poppie,  bidding  Jim  good-night,  trotted  away  by  his  side, 
requiring  both  her  hands  now  for  the  management  of  her 
potato,  at  which  she  was  more  expert  than  her  father,  for  he, 
being  nice  in  his  ways,  found  the  butter  and  the  peel  together 
troublesome. 

"I  say,  ain't  it  jolly  ?"  remarked  Poppie.  "I  call  that  a 
good  trade  now." 

"Would  you  like  to  have  one  o'  them  things  and  sell  hot 
potatoes  ?  "  asked  her  father. 

"Just  wouldn't  I?" 

"As  well  as  sweeping  a  crossing  ?" 

"A  deal  better,"  answered  Poppie.  "You  see,  daddie,  it's 
more  respectable — a  deal.  It  takes  money  to  buy  a  thing  like 
that.  And  I  could  wear  my  red  jacket  then.  Nobody  could 
say  anything  then,  for  the  thing  would  be  my  own,  and  a 
crossing  belongs  to  everybody." 

Mr.  Spelt  turned  the  matter  over  and  over  in  his  mind,  and 
thought  it  might  be  a  good  plan  for  giving  Poppie  some  lib- 
erty, and  yet  keeping  her  from  roving  about  everywhere  with- 
out object  or  end.     So  he  began  at  once  to  work  for  a  potato- 


272  Guild  Court. 

steamer  for  Poppie,  and,  in  the  course  of  a  fortnight,  managed 
to  buy  her  one.     Great  was  Poppie's  delight. 

She  went  out  regularly  in  the  dusk  to  the  corner  of  Bagot 
Street.  Her  father  carried  the  machine  for  her,  and  leaving 
her  there  with  it,  returned  to  his  work.  In  following  her  new 
occupation,  the  child  met  with  little  annoyance,  for  this  was  a 
respectable  part  of  the  city,  and  the  police  knew  her,  and  were 
inclined  to  protect  her.  One  of  her  chief  customers  was  Mr. 
Spelt  himself,  who  would  always  once,  sometimes  twice,  of  an 
evening,  lay  down  his  work,  scramble  from  his  perch,  and, 
running  to  the  corner  of  the  street,  order  a  potato,  ask  her 
how  she  was  getting  on,  pay  his  ha'penny  or  penny,  and  hurry 
back  with  the  hot  handful  to  console  him  for  the  absence  of 
his  darling.  Having  eaten  it,  chuckling  and  rejoicing,  he 
would  attack  his  work  with  vigor  so  renewed  as  soon  to  make 
up  for  the  loss  of  time  involved  in  procuring  it.  .  But  keeping 
out  of  view  the  paternal  consumption,  Poppie  was  in  a  fair 
way  of  paying  all  the  expense  of  the  cooking  apparatus.  Mr. 
and  Miss  Kitely  were  good  customers,  too,  and  everything 
looked  well  for  father  and  daughter. 

Every  night,  at  half-past  nine,  her  father  was  by  her  side  to 
carry  the  "murphy-buster" — that  was  Jim's  name  for  it — 
home.  There  was  no  room  for  it  in  the  shop,  of  course.  He 
took  it  up  the  three  flights  of  stairs  to  Poppie's  own  room  ; 
and  there,  with  three-quarters  of  a  pint  of  beer  to  wash  them 
down,  they  finished  the  remaining  potatoes,  "  ivith  butter, 
with  pepper,  and  with  salt,"  as  Poppie  would  exclaim,  in  the 
undisguised  delight  of  her  sumptuous  fare.  Sometimes  there 
were  none  left,  but  that  gave  only  a  variety  to  their  pleasures ; 
for  as  soon  as  the  engine,  as  Mr.  Spelt  called  it,  was  deposited 
in  safety,  they  set  out  to  buy  their  supper.  And  great  were 
the  consultations  to  which,  in  Mr.  Spelt's  desire  to  draw  out 
the  choice  and  judgment  of  his  daughter,  this  proceeding 
gave  rise.  At  one  time  it  was  a  slice  of  beef  or  ham  that  was 
resolved  upon,  at  another  a  bit  of  pudding,  sometimes  a  couple 
of  mutton-pies  or  sausages,  with  bread  ad  libitum.  There  was 
a  cookshop  in  the  neighborhood,  whose  window  was  all  be- 
clouded with  jets  of  steam,  issuing  as  from  a  volcanic  soil,  and 
where  all  kinds  of  hot  dainties  were  ready  for  the  fortunate 
purchaser  :  thither  the  two  would  generally  repair,  and  hold 
their  consultation  outside  the  window.  Then,  the  desirable 
thing  once  agreed  upon,  came  the  delight^of  buying  it,  always 
left  to  Poppie  ;  of  carrying  it  home,  still  left  to  Poppie  ;  of 
eating  it,  not  left  to  Poppie,  but  heightened  by  the  sympa- 


Thomas's  Mother.  273 

thetic  participation  of  her  father.  Followed  upon  all,  the 
chapter  in  the  Bible,  the  Lord's  Prayer,  bed,  and  dreams  of 
Mrs.  Flanaghan  and  her  gin-bottle,  or,  perhaps,  of  Lucy  and 
her  first  kiss. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

Thomas's   mother. 

Meantime  Mrs.  Worboise  had  taken  to  her  bed,  and  not 
even  Mr.  Simon  could  comfort  her.  The  mother's  heart  now 
spoke  louder  than  her  theology. 

She  and  her  priest  belonged  to  a  class  more  numerous  than 
many  of  my  readers  would  easily  believe,  a  great  part  of  whose 
religion  consists  in  arrogating  to  themselves  exclusive  privi- 
leges, and  another  great  part  in  defending  their  supposed 
rights  from  the  intrusion  of  others.  The  thing  does  not  look 
such  to  them,  of  course,  but  the  repulsiveness  of  their  behavior 
to  those  who  cannot  use  the  same  religious  phrases,  indicating 
the  non-adoption  of  their  particular  creed,  compels  others  so 
to  conclude  concerning  their  religion.  Doubtless  they  would 
say  for  themselves,  "We  do  but  as  God  has  taught  us  ;  we  be- 
lieve but  as  he  has  told  us  ;  we  exclude  whom  he  has  excluded, 
and  admit  whom  he  has  admitted."  But,  alas  for  that  people  ! 
the  god  of  whose  worship  is  altogether  such  a  one  as  themselves, 
or  worse  ;  whose  god  is  paltry,  shallow-minded  and  full  of  party 
spirit ;  who  sticks  to  a  thing  because  he  has  said  it,  accepts  a  man 
because  of  his  assent,  and  condemns  him  because  of  his  opinions  ; 
who  looks  no  deeper  than  a  man's  words  to  find  his  thoughts, 
and  no  deeper  than  his  thoughts  to  find  his  will !  True,  they 
are  in  the  hands  of  another  God  than  that  of  their  making, 
and  such  offenses  must  come  ;  yet,  alas  for  them  !  for  they  are 
of  the  hardest  to  redeem  into  the  childhood  of  the  kingdom. 

I  do  not  say  that  Mrs.  Worboise  began  to  see  her  sin  as 
such,  when  the  desolation  of  Thomas's  disappearance  fell  upon 
her,  but  the  atmosphere  of  her  mind  began  to  change,  and  a 
spring-season  of  mother's  feelings  to  set  in.  How  it  came 
about  I  cannot  explain.  I  as  well  as  any  of  my  readers  might 
have  felt  as  if  Mrs.  Worboise  were  almost  beyond  redemption ; 
but  it  was  not  so.  Her  redemption  came  in  the  revival  of  a 
long  suppressed  motherhood.  Her  husband's  hardness  and 
want  of  sympathy  with  her  sufferings  had  driven  her  into  the 
18 


274  Guild  Court. 

arms  of  a  party  of  exclusive  Christians,  whose  brotherhood 
consisted  chiefly,  as  I  have  already  described  it,  in  denying  the 
great  brotherhood,  and  refusing  the  hand  of  those  who  fol- 
lowed not  with  them.  They  were  led  by  one  or  two  persons  of 
some  social  position,  whose  condescending  assumption  of  supe- 
riority over  those  that  were  without  was  as  offensive  as  absurd, 
,  and  whose  weak  brains  were  their  only  excuse.  The  worst 
thing  of  this  company  was  that  it  was  a  company.  In  many 
holding  precisely  the  same  opinions  with  them,  those  opinions 
are  comparatively  harmless,  because  they  are  more  directly 
counteracted  by  the  sacred  influences  of  God's  world  and  the 
necessities  of  things,  which  are  very  needful  to  prevent,  if  pos- 
sible, self-righteous  Christians  from  sending  themselves  to  a 
deeper  hell  than  any  they  denounce  against  their  neigh- 
bors. But  when  such  combine  themselves  into  an  esoteric 
school,  they  foster,  as  in  an  oven  or  a  forcing-pit,  all  the 
worst  distinctions  for  the  sake  of  which  they  separate  them- 
selves from  others.  All  that  was  worst  in  poor  Mrs.  Wor- 
boise  was  cherished  by  the  companionship  of  those  whose  chief 
anxiety  was  to  save  their  souls,  and  who  thus  ran  the  great  risk 
set  forth  by  the  Saviour  of  losing  them.  They  treated  the  words 
of  the  Bible  like  talismans  or  spells,  the  virtue  of  which  lay  in 
the  words,  and  in  the  assent  given  to  them,  or  at  most,  the 
feelings  that  could  be  conjured  up  by  them,  not  in  the  doing 
of  the  things  they  presupposed  or  commanded.  But  there 
was  one  thing  that  did  something  to  keep  her  fresh  and  pre- 
vent her  from  withering  into  a  dry  tree  of  supposed  orthodoxy, 
the  worst  dryness  of  all,  because  it  is  the  least  likely  to  yield  to 
any  fresh  burst  of  living  sap  from  the  forgotten  root — that  was 
her  anxiety  to  get  her  son  within  the  "  garden  walled  around," 
and  the  continual  disappointment  of  her  efforts  to  that  end. 
But  now  that  the  shock  of  his  flight  had  aggravated  all  the 
symptoms  of  her  complaint,  which  was  a  serious  one  though 
slow  in  the  movement  of  its  progressive  cycles,  now  that  she 
was  confined  to  her  bed  and  deprived  of  the  small  affairs  that 
constituted  the  dull  excitements  of  her  joyless  life,  her 
imagination,  roused  by  a  reaction  from  the  first  grief, 
continually  presented  to  her  the  form  of  her  darling 
in  the  guise  of  the  prodigal,  his  handsome  face  worn 
with  hunger  and  wretchedness,  or  still  worse,  with  dissipation 
and  disease  ;  and  she  began  to  accuse  herself  bitterly  for  hav- 
ing alienated  his  affections  from  herself  *  by  too  assiduously 
forcing  upon  his  attention  that  which  was  distasteful  to  him. 
She  said  to  herself  that  it  was  easy  for  an  old  woman  like  her, 


Thomas's  Mother.  275 

who  had  been  disappointed  in  everything,  and  whose  life  and 
health  were  a  wreck,  to  turn  from  the  vanities  of  the  world  ; 
but  how  could  her  young  Thomas,  in  the  glory  of  youth,  be 
expected  to  see  things  as  she  saw  them  ?  How  could  he  flee 
from  the  wrath  to  come  when  he  had  as  yet  felt  no  breath  of 
that  wrath  on  his  cheek  ?  She  ought  to  have  loved  him,  and 
borne  with  him,  and  smiled  upon  him,  and  never  let  him 
fancy  that  his  presence  was  a  pain  to  her  because  he  could  not 
take  her  ways  for  his.  Add  to  this  certain  suspicions  that 
arose  in  her  mind  from  what  she  considered  unfriendly  neglect 
on  the  part  of  the  chief  man  of  their  chosen  brotherhood,  and 
from  the  fact  that  her  daughter  Amy  had  already  wrought  a 
questionable  change  on  Mr.  Simon,  having  persuaded  him  to 
accompany  her — not  to  the  theatre  at  all — only  to  the  Gallery 
of  Illustration,  and  it  will  be  seen  that  everything  tended  to 
turn  the  waters  of  her  heart  back  into  the  old  channel  with  the 
flow  of  a  spring-tide  toward  her  son.  She  wept  and  prayed — 
better  tears  and  better  prayers  because  her  love  was  stronger. 
She  humbled  her  heart,  proud  of  its  acceptance  with  God,  be- 
fore a  higher  idea  of  that  God.  She  began  to  doubt  whether 
she  was  more  acceptable  in  his  sight  than  other  people.  There 
must  be  some  who  were,  but  she  could  not  be  one  of  them. 
Instead  of  striving  after  assurance,  as  they  called  it,  she  began 
to  shrink  from  every  feeling  that  lessened  her  humility ;  for 
she  found  that  when  she  was  most  humble  then  she  could  best 
pray  for  her  son.  Not  that  had  her  assurance  rested  in  the 
love  of  God  it  would  ever  have  quenched  her  prayer  ;  but  her 
assurance  had  been  taught  to  rest  uj3on  her  consciousness  of 
faith,  which,  unrealized,  tended  to  madness — realized,  to  spir- 
itual pride.  She  lay  thus  praying  for  him,  and  dreaming 
about  him,  and  hoping  that  he  would  return  before  she  died, 
when  she  would  receive  him  as  son  had  never  before  been 
welcomed  to  his  mother's  bosom. 

•  .But  Mr.  Worboise's  dry,  sand-locked  bay  was  open  to  the 
irruption  of  no  such  waters  from  the  great  deep  of  the  eternal 
love.  Narrow  and  poor  as  it  was,  Mrs.  Worboise's  religion 
had  yet  been  as  a  little  wedge  to  keep  her  door  open  to  better 
things,  when  they  should  arrive  and  claim  an  entrance,  as 
they  had  now  done.  But  her  husband's  heart  was  full  of 
money  and  the  love  of  it.  How  to  get  money,  how  not  to 
spend  it,  how  to  make  it  grow — these  were  the  chief  cares  that 
filled  his  heart.  His  was  not  the  natural  anxiety  the  objects 
of  which,  though  not  the  anxiety,  were  justified  by  the  Lord 
when  he  said,  "Your  Father  knoweth  that  ye  have  need  of 


276  Guild  Court 

these  things."  It  was  not  what  he  needed  that  filled  his  mind 
with  care,  but  what  he  did  not  need,  and  never  would  need  ; 
nay,  what  other  people  needed,  and  what  was  not  his  to  take — 
not  his  in  God's  sight,  whatever  the  law  might  say.  And  to 
God's  decision  everything  must  come  at  last,  for  that  is  the 
only  human  verdict  of  things,  the  only  verdict  which  at  last 
will  satisfy  the  whole  jury  of  humanity.  But  I  am  wrong ; 
this  was  not  all  that  filled  his  heart.  One  demon  generally 
opens  the  door  to  another — they  are  not  jealous  of  exclusive 
possession  of  the  human  thrall.  The  heart  occupied  by  the 
love  of  money  will  be  only  too  ready  to  fall  a  prey  to  other 
evils  ;  for  selfishness  soon  branches  out  in  hatred  and  injustice. 
The  continued  absence  of  his  son,  which  he  attributed  still  to 
the  Boxalls,  irritated  more  than  alarmed  him  ;  but  if  some- 
times a  natural  feeling  of  dismay  broke  in  upon  him,  it  only 
roused  yet  more  the  worst  feelings  of  his  heart  against  Lucy 
and  her  grandmother.  Every  day  to  which  Thomas's  absence 
extended  itself,  his  indignation  sank  deeper  rather  than  rose 
higher.  Every  day  he  vowed  that,  if  favored  by  fortune,  he 
would  make  them  feel  in  bitterness  how  deeply  they  had  in- 
jured him.  To  the  same  account  he  entered  all  the  annoyance 
given  him  by  the  well-meaning  Mr.  Sargent,  who  had  only  as 
yet  succeeded  in  irritating  him  without  gaining  the  least 
advantage  over  him.  His  every  effort  in  resistance  of  probate 
failed.  The  decision  of  the  court  was  that  Mr.  Boxall,  a 
strong,  healthy,  well-seasoned,  middle-aged  man,  was  far  more 
likely  to  have  outlived  all  his  daughters,  than  any  one  of  them 
have  outlived  him ;  therefore  Mr.  Worboise  obtained  probate 
and  entered  into  possession. 

Although  Mr.  Sargent  could  not  but  have  at  least  more 
than  doubted  the  result,  he  felt  greatly  discomfited  at  it.  He 
went  straight  to  Mr.  Morgenstern's  office  to  communicate  his 
failure  and  the  foiling  of  the  liberality  which  had  made  the 
attempt  possible.  Mr.  Morgenstern  only  smiled,  and  wrote  him 
a  check  for  the  costs.  Of  course,  being  a  Jew,  he  did  not  en- 
joy parting  with  his  money  for  nothing — no  Christian  would 
have  minded  it  in  the  least.  Seriously,  Mr.  Morgenstern  did 
throw  half  his  cigar  into  the  fire  from  annoyance.  But  his 
first  words  were  : 

"  What's  to  be  done  for  those  good  people,  then,  Sargent  ? " 

"We  must  wait  till  we  see.     I  think  I  told  you  that  the  old 

lady  has  a  claim  upon  the  estate,  which,  most  unfortunately,  she 

cannot  establish.     Now,  however,  that  this  cormorant  has  had 

his  own  way,  he  will  perhaps  be  inclined  to  be  generous  ;  for 


Lucy's  New  Trouble.  277 

justice  must  be  allowed  in  this  case  to  put  on  the  garb  of 
generosity,  else  she  will  not  appear  in  public,  I  can  tell  you. 
I  mean  to  make  this  one  attempt  more.  I  confess  to  consider- 
able misgiving,  however.  To-morrow^  before  his  satisfaction 
has  evaporated,  I  will  make  it,  and  let  you  know  the  result." 
By  this  time  Mr.  Morgenstern  had  lighted  another  cigar. 


CHAPTEE  XLI. 

lucy's  new  trouble. 

Mr.  Sargent's  nest  application  to  Mr.  Worboise,  made  on 
the  morning  after  the  decision  of  the  court  in  his  favor,  shared 
the  fate  of  all  his  preceding  attempts.  Mr.  Worboise  smiled  it 
off.  There  was  more  inexorableness  expressed  in  his  smile 
than  in  another's  sullen  imprecation.  The  very  next  morning 
Mrs.  Boxall  was  served  with  notice  to  quit  at  the  approaching 
quarter-day;  for  she  had  no  agreement,  and  paid  no  rent, 
consequently  she  was  tenant  only  on  sufferance.  And  now 
Mr.  Stopper's  behavior  toward  them  underwent  a  considerable 
change  ;  not  that  he  was  in  the  smallest  degree  rude  to  them  ; 
but,  of  course,  there  was  now  no  room  for  that  assumption  of 
the  confidential  by  which  he  had  sought  to  establish  the  most 
friendly  relations  between  himself  and  the  probable  proprietors 
of  the  business  in  which  he  hojoed  to  secure  his  position,  not 
merely  as  head-clerk,  but  as  partner.  The  door  between  the 
house  and  the  office  was  once  more  carefully  locked,  and  the 
key  put  in  his  drawer,  and  having  found  how  hostile  his  new 
master  was  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  house,  he  took  care  to 
avoid  every  suspicion  of  intimacy  with  them. 

Mrs.  Boxall's  paroxysm  of  indignant  rage  when  she  received 
the  notice  to  quit  was  of  course  as  impotent  as  the  bursting  of 
a  shell  in  a  mountain  of  mud.  From  the  first,  however,  her 
anger  had  had  this  effect,  that  everybody  in  the  court,  down 
to  lowly  and  lonely  Mr.  Dolman,  the  cobbler,  knew  all  the 
phases  of  her  oppression  and  injury.  Lucy  never  said  a  word 
about  it,  save  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Morgenstern,  whose  offer  of 
shelter  for  herself  and  her  grandmother  till  they  could  see 
what  was  to  be  done,  she  gratefully  declined,  knowing  that 
her  grandmother  would  die  rather  than  accept  such  a  position. 


278  Guild  Court. 


"  There's  nothing  left  for  me  in  my  old  age  but  the  work 
house,"  said  Mrs.  Boxall,  exhausted  by  one  of  her  outbursts  of 
fierce  vindictive  passion  against  the  author  of  her  misfortunes, 
which,  as  usual,  ended  in  the  few  bitter  tears  that  are  left  to 
the  aged  to  shed. 

"  Grannie,  grannie,"  said  Lucy,  "don't  talk  like  that. 
You  have  been  a  mother  to  me.  See  if  I  cannot  be  a  daughter 
to  you.  I  am  quite  able  to  keep  you  and  myself  too  as  com- 
fortable as  ever.     See  if  I  can't." 

"  Nonsense,  child.  It  will  be  all  that  you  can  do  to  keep 
yourself  ;  and  I'm  not  a-going  to  sit  on  the  neck  of  a  young 
thing  like  you,  just  like  a  nightmare,  and  have  you  wishing 
me  gone  from  morning  to  night." 

"  I  don't  deserve  that  you  should  say  that  of  me,  grannie. 
But  I'm  sure  you  don't  think  as  you  say.  And  as  to  being 
able,  with  Mrs.  Morgenstern's  recommendation  I  can  get  as 
much  teaching  as  I  can  undertake.  I  am  pretty  sure  of  that, 
and  you  know  it  will  only  be  paying  you  back  a  very  little  of 
your  own,  grannie." 

Before  Mrs.  Boxall  could  reply,  for  she  felt  reproached  for 
having  spoken  so  to  her  grand-daughter,  there  was  a  tap  at  the 
door,  and  Mr.  Kitely  entered. 

"  Begging  your  pardon,  ladies,  and  taking  the  liberty  of  a 
neighbor,  I  made  bold  not  to  trouble  you  by  ringing  the  bell. 
I've  got  something  to  speak  about  in  the  way  of  business." 

So  saying,  the  worthy  bookseller,  who  had  no  way  of  doing 
anything  but  going  at  it  like  a  bull,  drew  a  chair  near  the 
fire. 

"With  your  leave,  ma'am,  it's  as  easy  to  speak  sitting  as 
standing.     So,  if  you  don't  object,  I'll  sit  down." 

"Do  sit  down,  Mr.  Kitely,"  said  Lucy.  "We're  glad  to 
see  you — though  you  know  we're  in  a  little  trouble  just  at 
present." 

"  I  know  all  about  that,  and  I  don't  believe  there's  a  creat- 
ure in  the  court,  down  to  Mrs.  Cook's  cat,  that  isn't  ready  to 
fly  at  that  devil's  limb  of  a  lawyer.  But  you  see,  ma'am,  if 
we  was  to  murder  him  it  wouldn't  be  no  better  for  you.  And 
what  I  come  to  say  to  you  is  this  :  I've  got  a  deal  more  room 
on  my  premises  than  I  want,  and  it  would  be  a  wonderful  ac- 
commodation to  me,  not  to  speak  of  the  honor  of  it,  if  you 
would  take  charge  of  my  little  woman  for  me.  I  can't  inter- 
fere with  her,  you  know,  so  as  to  say  she's  -not  to  take  care'  of 
me,  you  know,  for  that  would  go  nigh  to  break  her  little  heart ; 
but  if  you  would  come  and  live  there  as  long  as  convenient  to 


Lucy's  New  Trouble.  279 

yon,  you  could  get  things  for  yourselves  all  the  same  as  you 
does  here,  only  you  wouldn't  have  nothing  to  be  out  of  pocket 
for  house-room,  you  know.  It  would  be  the  making  of  my 
poor  motherless  Mattie." 

"Oh  !  we're  not  going  to  be  so  very  poor  as  grannie  thinks, 
Mr.  Kitely,"  said  Lucy,  trying  to  laugh,  while  the  old  lady  sat 
rocking  herself  to  and.  fro  and  wiping  her  eyes.  "  But  I 
should  like  to  move  into  your  house,  for  there's  nowhere  I 
should  be  so  much  at  home." 

"  Lucy  !  "  said  her  grandmother,  warningly. 

"  Stop  a  bit,  grannie.  Mr.  Kitely's  a  real  friend  in  need  ; 
and  if  I  had  not  such  a  regard  .for  him  as  I  have,  I  would  take 
it  as  it's  meant.  I'll  tell  you  what,  Mr.  Kitely  ;  it  only  comes 
to  this,  that  I  have  got  to  work  a  little  harder,  and  not  lead 
such  an  idle  life  with  my  grannie  here." 

"  You  idle,  miss  ! "  interrupted  the  bookseller.  "  I  never 
see  any  one  more  like  the  busy  bee  than  yourself,  only  that  you 
was  always  a-wastin'  of  your  honey  on  other  people  ;  and  that 
they  say  ain't  the  way  of  the  bees." 

"But  you  won't  hear  me  out,  Mr.  Kitely.  It  would  be  a 
shame  of  me  to  go  and  live  in  anybody's  house  for  nothing, 
seeing  I  am  quite  able  to  pay  for  it.  Now,  if  you  have  room  in 
your  house — " 

"  Miles  of  it,"  cried  the  bookseller. 

"I  don't  know  where  it  can  be,  then;  for  it's  as  full  of 
books  from  the  ground  to  the  garret  as — as — as  my  darling  old 
grannie  here  is  of  independence. " 

"  Don't  you  purtend  to  know  more  about  my  house,  miss, 
than  I  does  myself.  Just  you  say  the  word,  and  before  quar- 
ter-day you'll  find  two  rooms  fit  for  your  use  and  at  your  ser- 
vice. What  I  owe  to  you,  miss,  in  regard  of  my  little  one, 
nothing  I  can  do  can  ever  repay.  They're  a  bad  lot  them 
Worboises — son  and  father  !  and  that  I  saw — leastways  in  the 
young  one." 

This  went  with  a  sting  to  poor  Lucy's  heart.  She  kept  hop- 
ing and  hoping,  and  praying  to  God  :  but  her  little  patch  of 
blue  sky  was  so  easily  overclouded  !  But  she  kept  to  the  mat- 
ter before  her. 

"  Very  well,  Mr.  Kitely  ;  you  ought  to  know  best.  Now  for 
my  side  of  the  bargain.  I  told  you  already  that  I  would  rather 
be  in  your  house  than  anywhere  else,  if  I  must  leave  this  dear 
old  place.  And  if  you  will  let  me  pay  a  reasonable  sum,  as 
lodgings  go  in  this  court,  we'll  regard  the  matter  as  settled. 
And  then  I  can  teach  Mattie  a  little,  you  know." 


280    '  Guild  Court. 

Mrs.  Boxall  did  not  put  in  a  word.  The  poor  old  lady  was 
beginning  to  weary  of  everything,  and  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life  began  to  allow  her  affairs  to  be  meddled  with — as  she 
would  no  doubt  even  now  consider  it.  And  the  sound  of  pay- 
ing for  it  was  very  satisfactory.  I  suspect  part  of  Lucy's  de- 
sire to  move  no  farther  than  the  entrance  of  the  court,  came 
from  the  hope  that  Thomas  would  some  day  or  other  turn  up 
in  that  neighborhood,  and  perhaps  this  emboldened  her  to 
make  the  experiment  of  taking  the  matter  so  much  into  her 
own  hands.  Mr.  Kitely  scratched  his  head,  and  looked  a  little 
annoyed. 

"Well,  miss,"  he  said,  pausing  between  every  few  words,  a 
most  unusual  thing  with  him,  "that's  not  a  bit  of  what  I 
meant  when  I  came  up  the  court  here.  But  that's  better  than 
nothing — for  Mattie  and  me,  I  mean.  So  if  you'll  be  reason- 
able about  the  rent,  we'll  easily  manage  all  the  rest.  Mind 
you,  miss,  it'll  be  all  clear  profit  to  me." 

■"  It'll  cost  you  a  good  deal  to  get  the  rooms  put  in  order  as 
you  say,  you  know,  Mr.  Kitely." 

"Not  much,  miss.  I  know  how  to  set  about  things  better 
than  most  people.  Bless  you,  I  can  buy  wall-papers  for  half 
what  you'd  pay  for  them  now.  I  know  the  trade.  I've  been 
a-most  everything  in  my  day.  Why,  miss,  I  lived  at  one  time 
such  a  close  shave  with  dying  of  hunger,  that,  after  I  was  mar- 
ried, I  used  to  make  picture  frames  and  then  pawn  my  tools 
to  get  glass  to  put  into  them,  and  then  carry  them  about  to 
sell,  and  when  I  had  sold  'em  I  bought  more  gold-beading  and 
redeemed  my  tools,  and  did  it  all  over  again.  Bless  you  !  I 
know  what  it  is  to  be  hard  up,  if  anybody  ever  did.  I  once 
walked  from  Bristol  to  Newcastle  upon  f ourpence.  It  won't 
cost  me  much  to  make  them  rooms  decent.  And  then  there's 
the  back  parlor  at  your  service.  I  shan't  plague  you  much, 
only  to  take  a  look  at  my  princess  now  and  then." 

After  another  interview  or  two  between  Lucy  and  Mr. 
Kitely,  the  matter  was  arranged,  and  the  bookseller  proceeded 
to  get  his  rooms  ready,  which  involved  chiefly  a  little  closer 
packing,  and  the  getting  rid  of  a  good  deal  of  almost  unsalable 
rubbish,  which  had  accumulated  from  the  purchase  of  lots. 

Meantime  another  trial  was  gathering  for  poor  Lucy.  Mr. 
Sargent  had  met  Mr.  Wither,  and  had  learned  from  him  all 
he  knew  about  Thomas.  Mr.  Wither  was  certain  that  every- 
thing was  broken  off  between  Lucy  and  him.  It  was  not  only 
known  to  all  at  the  office  that  Thomas  had  disappeared,  but  it 
was  perfectly  known  as  well  that  for  some  time  he  had  been 


Lucy's  New  Trouble.  281 

getting  into  bad  ways,  and  his  disappearance  was  necessarily 
connected  with  this  fact,  though  no  one  but  Mr.  Stopper  knew 
the  precise  occasion  of  his  evanishment,  and  this  he  was,  if  pos- 
sible, more  careful  than  ever  to  conceal.  Not  even  to  the  lad's 
father  did  he  communicate  what  he  knew  :  he  kept  this  as  a 
power  over  his  new  principal.  From  what  he  heard,  Mr.  Sar- 
gent resolved  to  see  if  he  could  get  anything  out  of  Molken, 
and  called  upon  him  for  that  purpose.  But  the  German  soon 
convinced  him  that,  although  he  had  been  intimate  with 
Thomas,  he  knew  nothing  about  him  now.  The  last  informa- 
tion he  could  give  him  was  that  he  had  staked  and  lost  his 
watch  and  a  lady's  ring  that  he  wore  ;  that  he  had  gone  away 
and  returned  with  money ;  and,  having  gained  considerably, 
had  disappeared  and  never  been  heard  of  again.  It  was  easy 
for  Mr.  Sargent  to  persuade  himself  that  a  noble-minded  creat- 
ure like  Lucy,  having  come  to  know  the  worthlessness  of  her 
lover,  had  dismissed  him  forever;  and  to  believe  that  she 
would  very  soon  become  indifferent  to  a  person  so  altogether 
unworthy  of  her  affection.  Probably  lie  was  urged  yet  the 
more  to  a  fresh  essay  from  the  desire  of  convincing  her  that 
his  motives  in  the  first  case  had  not  been  so  selfish  as  accident 
had  made  them  appear ;  nor  that  his  feelings  toward  her  re- 
mained unaltered  notwithstanding  the  change  in  her  prospects. 
He  therefore  kept  up  his  visits,  and  paid  them  even  more  fre- 
quently now  that  there  was  no  possible  excuse  on  the  score  of 
business.  For  some  time,  however,  so  absorbed  were  Lucy's 
thoughts  that  his  attentions  gave  her  no  uneasiness.  She  con- 
sidered the  matter  so  entirely  settled,  that  no  suspicion  of  the 
revival  of  any  farther  hope  in  the  mind  of  Mr.  Sargent  arose 
to  add  a  fresh  trouble  to  the  distress  which  she  was  doing  all 
she  could  to  bear  patiently.  But  one  day  she  was  suddenly 
undeceived.     Mrs.  Boxall  had  just  left  the  room. 

"Miss  Burton,"  said  Mr.  Sargent,  "I  venture  to  think  cir- 
cumstances may  be  sufficiently  altered  to  justify  me  in  once 
more  expressing  a  hope  that  I  may  be  permitted  to  regard  a 
nearer  friendship  as  possible  between  us." 

Lucy  started  as  if  she  had  been  hurt.  The  occurrence  was 
so  strange  and  foreign  to  all  that  was  in  her  thoughts,  that  she 
had  to  look  all  around  her,  as  it  were,  like  a  person  suddenly 
awaking  in  a  strange  place.  Before  she  could  speak,  her 
grandmother  reentered.  Mr.  Sargent  went  away  without  any 
conviction  that  Lucy's  behavior  indicated  repugnance  to  his 
proposal. 

Often  it  happens  that  things  work  together  without  any  con- 


282  Guild  Court 

certed  scheme.  Mrs.  Morgenstern  had  easily  divined  Mr.  Sar- 
gent's feelings,  and  the  very  next  day  began  to  talk  about  him 
to  Lucy.  But  she  listened  without  interest,  until  Mrs.  Mor- 
genstern touched  a  chord  which  awoke  a  very  painful  one. 
For  at  last  her  friend  had  got  rather  piqued  at  Lucy's  coldness 
and  indifference. 

"  I  think  at  least,  Lucy,  you  might  take  a  little  interest  in 
the  poor  fellow,  if  only  from  gratitude.  A  girl  may  acknowl- 
edge that  feeling  without  compromising  herself.  There  has 
Mr.  Sargent  been  wearing  himself  out  for  you,  lying  awake  at 
night,  and  running  about  all  day,  without  hope  of  reward,  and 
you  are  so  taken  up  with  your  own  troubles  that  you  haven't  a 
thought  for  the  man  who  has  done  all  that  lay  in  human 
being's  power  to  turn  them  aside." 

Could  Lucy  help  comparing  this  conduct  with  that  of 
Thomas  ?  And  while  she  compared  it,  she  could  as  little  help 
the  sudden  inroad  of  the  suspicion  that  Thomas  had  forsaken 
her  that  he  might  keep  well  with  his  father — the  man  who  was 
driving  them,  as  far  as  lay  in  his  power,  into  the  abysses  of 
poverty ;  and  that  this  disappearance  was  the  only  plan  he 
dared  to  adopt  for  freeing  himself — for  doubtless  his  cowardice 
would  be  at  least  as  great  in  doing  her  wrong  as  it  had  been  in 
refusing  to  do  her  right.  And  she  did  feel  that  there  was 
some  justice  in  Mrs.  Morgenstern's  reproach.  For  if  poor  Mr. 
Sargent  was  really  in  love  with  her,  she  ought  to  pity  him  and 
feel  for  him  some  peculiar  tenderness,  for  the  very  reason  that 
she  could  not  grant  him  what  he  desired.  Her  strength  hav- 
ing been  much  undermined  of  late,  she  could  not  hear  Mrs. 
Morgenstern's  reproaches  without  bursting  into  tears.  And 
then  her  friend  began  to  comfort  her ;  but  all  the  time  sup- 
posing that  her  troubles  were  only  those  connected  with  her 
reverse  of  fortune.  As  Lucy  went  home,  however,  a  very  dif- 
ferent and  terrible  thought  darted  into  her  mind  :  "  What  if  it 
was  her  duty  to  listen  to  Mr.  Sargent ! "  There  seemed  no 
hope  for  her  any  more.  Thomas  had  forsaken  her  utterly. 
If  she  could  never  be  happy,  ought  she  not  to  be  the  more 
anxious  to  make  another  happy  ?  Was  there  any  limit  to  the 
sacrifice  that  ought  to  be  made  for  another — that  is  of  one's 
self  ?  for,  alas  !  it  would  be  to  sacrifice  no  one  besides.  The 
thought  was  indeed  a  terrible  one. 

All  the  rest  of  the  day  her  soul  was  like  a  drowning  creature 

—now  getting  one  breath  of  hope,  now  with  all  the  billows  and 

waves  of  despair  going  over  it.    The  evening  passed  in  constant 

terror,  lest  Mr.  Sargent  should  appear,  and  a  poor  paltry  little 


Lucy's  New  Trouble.  283 

hope  grew  as  the  hands  of  the  clock  went  round,  and  every 
moment  rendered  it  less  likely  that  he  would  come.  At  length 
she  might  go  to  bed  without  annoying  her  grandmother,  who, 
by  various  little  hints  she  dropped.,  gave  her  clearly  to  under- 
stand that  she  expected  her  to  make  a  good  match  before  long, 
and  so  relieve  her  mind  about  her  at  least. 

She  went  to  bed,  and  fell  asleep  from  very  weariness  of  emo- 
tion. But  presently  she  started  awake  again ;  and,  strange  to 
say,  it  seemed  to  be  a  resolution  she  had  formed  in  her  sleep 
that  brought  her  awake.  It  was  that  she  would  go  to  Mr. 
Fuller,  and  consult  him  on  the  subject  that  distressed  her. 
After  that  she  slept  till  the  morning. 

She  had  no  lesson  to  give  that  day,  so  as  soon  as  Mr.  Fuller's 
church-bell  began  to  ring,  she  put  on  her  bonnet.  Her  grand- 
mother asked  where  she  was  going.  She  told  her  she  was 
going  to  church. 

"I  don't  like  this  papist  way  of  going  to  church  of  a  week- 
day— at  least  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  when  people  ought  to 
be  at  their  work." 

Lucy  made  no  reply  ;  for,  without  being  one  of  those  half 
of  whose  religion  consists  in  abusing  the  papists,  Mrs.  Boxall 
was  one  of  those  who  would  turn  from  any  good  thing  of 
which  she  heard  first  as  done  by  those  whose  opinions  differed 
from  her  own.  Nor  would  it  have  mitigated  her  dislike  to 
know  that  Lucy  was  going  for  the  purpose  of  asking  advice 
from  Mr.  Fuller.  She  would  have  denounced  that  as  con- 
fession, and  asked  whether  it  was  not  more  becoming  in  a 
young  girl  to  consult  her  grandmother  than  go  to  a  priest. 
Therefore,  I  say,  Lucy  kept  her  own  counsel. 

There  were  twenty  or  thirty  people  present  when  she  en- 
tered St.  Amos's ;  a  grand  assembly,  if  we  consider  how  time 
and  place  were  haunted — swarming  with  the  dirty  little  de- 
mons of  money-making  and  all  its  attendant  beggarly  cares 
and  chicaneries — one  o'clock  in  the  City  of  London  !  It  was 
a  curious  psalm  they  were  singing,  so  quaint  and  old-fashioned, 
and  so  altogether  unlike  London  in  the  nineteenth  century  ! — 
the  last  in  the  common  version  of  Tate  and  Brady.  They 
were  beginning  the  fifth  verse  when  she  entered  : 

"  Let  them  who  joyful  hymns  compose 
To  cymbals  set  their  songs  of  praise  ; 
Cymbals  of  common  use,  and  those 
That  loudly  sound  on  solemn  days." 

Lucy  did  not  feel  at  all  in  sympathy  with  cymbals.    But  she 


284  Guild  Court. 

knew  that  Mr.  Fuller  did,  else  he  could  not  have  chosen  that 
psalm  to  sing.  And  an  unconscious  operation  of  divine  logic 
took  place  in  her  heart,  with  result  such  as  might  be  repre- 
sented in  the  following  process  :  "  Mr.  Fuller  is  glad  in  God — 
not  because  he  thinks  himself  a  favorite  with  God,  but  because 
God  is  what  he  is,  a  faithful  God.  He  is  not  one  thing  to  Mr. 
Fuller  and  another  to  me.  He  is  the  same  though  I  am  sor- 
rowful, I  will  praise  him  too.  He  will  help  me  to  be  and  do 
right,  and  that  can  never  be  anything  unworthy  of  me."  So, 
with  a  trembling  voice,  Lucy  joined  in  the  end  of  the  song  of 
praise.  And  when  Mr.  Fuller's  voice  arose  in  the  prayer — 
"  0  God,  whose  nature  and  property  is  ever  to  have  mercy  and 
to  forgive,  receive  our  humble  petitions,  and  though  we  be  tied 
and  bound  with  the  chain  of  our  sins,  yet  let  the  pitifulness  of 
thy  great  mercy  loose  us  :  for  the  honor  of  Jesus  Christ,  our 
Mediator  and  Advocate.  Amen  " — she  joined  in  it  with  all  her 
heart,  both  for  herself  and  Thomas.  Then,  without  the  for- 
mality of  a  text,  Mr.  Fuller  addressed  his  little  congregation 
something  as  follows  : 

' '  My  friends,  is  it  not  strange  that  with  all  the  old  church- 
yards lying  about  in  London,  unbusiness-like  spots  in  the  midst 
of  shops  and  warehouses,  'and  all  the  numberless  goings  on  of 
life,'  we  should  yet  feel  so  constantly  as  if  the  business  of  the 
city  were  an  end  in  itself  ?  How  seldom  we  see  that  it  is  only 
a  means  to  an  end  !  I  will  tell  you  in  a  few  words  one  cause 
of  this  feeling  as  if  it  were  an  end  ;  and  then  to  what  end  it 
really  is  a  means.  With  all  the  reminders  of  death  that  we 
have  aboufrus,  not  one  of  us  feels  as  if  he  were  going  to  die. 
We  think  of  other  people — even  those  much  younger  than 
ourselves — dying,  and  it  always  seems  as  if  we  were  going  to 
be  alive  when  they  die  :  and  why  ?  Just  because  we  are  not 
going  to  die.  This  thinking  part  in  us  feels  no  symptom  of 
ceasing  to  be.  We  think  on  and  on,  and  death  seems  far  from 
us,  for  it  belongs  only  to  our  bodies — not  to  us.  So  the  soul 
forgets  it.  It  is  no  part  of  religion  to  think  about  death.  It 
is  the  part  of  religion,  when  the  fact  and  thought  of  death 
come  in,  to  remind  us  that  we  live  forever,  and  that  God,  who 
sent  his  Son  to  die,  will  help  us  safe  through  that  somewhat 
fearful  strait  that  lies  before  us,  and  which  often  grows  so  ter- 
rible to  those  who  fix  their  gaze  upon  it  that  they  see  nothing 
beyond  it,  and  talk  with  poor  Byron  of  the  day  of  death  as 
'the  first  dark  day  of  nothingness.'  But  this  fact  that  we  do 
not  die,  that  only  our  bodies  die,  adds  immeasurably  to  the 
folly  of  making  what  is  commonly  called  the  business  of  life 


Lucy's  New  Trouble.  285 

an  end  instead  of  a  means.  It  is  not  the  business  of  life. 
The  business  of  life  is  that  which  has  to  do  with  the  life — with 
the  living  us,  not  with  the  dying  part  of  us.  How  can  the 
business  of  life  have  to  do  with  the  part  that  is  always  dying  ? 
Yet,  certainly,  as  you  will  say,  it  must  be  done — only,  mark 
this,  not  as  an  end,  but  as  a  means.  As  an  end  it  has  to  do 
only  with  the  perishing  body  ;  as  a  means  it  has  infinite  rela- 
tions with  the  never-ceasing  life.  Then  comes  the  question, 
To  what  end  is  it  a  means  ?  It  is  a  means,  a  great,  I  might 
say  the  great,  means  to  the  end  for  which  God  sends  us  indi- 
vidually into  a  world  of  sin ;  for  that  he  does  so,  whatever  the 
perplexities  the  admission  may  involve,  who  can  deny,  with- 
out denying  that  God  makes  us  ?  If  we  were  sent  without 
any  sinful  tendencies  into  a  sinless  world,  we  should  be  good, 
I  dare  say  ;  but  with  a  very  poor  kind  of  goodness,  knowing 
nothing  of  evil,  consequently  never  choosing  good,  but  being 
good  in  a  stupid  way  because  we  could  not  help  it.  But  how 
is  it  with  us  ?  We  live  in  a  world  of  constant  strife — a  strife, 
as  the  old  writers  call  it,  following  St.  Paul,  between  the  flesh 
and  the  spirit ;  the  things  belonging  to  the  outer  life,  the  life 
of  the  senses,  the  things  which  our  Saviour  sums  up  in  the 
words,  'what  we  shall  eat,  and  what  we  shall  drink,  and 
wherewithal  we  shall  be  clothed,'  forcing  themselves  constantly 
on  our  attention,  and  crowding  away  the  thought  and  the  care 
that  belong  to  the  real  life — the  life  that  consists  in  purity  of 
heart,  in  love,  in  goodness  of  all  kinds — that  embraces  all  life, 
using  our  own  life  only  as  the  standpoint  from  which  to  stretch 
out  arms  of  embracing  toward  God  and  toward  all  men.  For 
the  feeding  and  growth  of  this  life,  London  city  affords  end- 
less opportunity.  Business  is  too  often  regarded  as  the  hin- 
drance to  the  spiritual  life.  I  regard  it  as  among  the  finest 
means  the  world  affords  for  strengthening  and  causing  to 
grow  this  inner  real  life.  For  every  deed  may  be  done  accord- 
ing to  the  fashion  of  the  outward  perishing  life,  as  an  end ;  or 
it  may  be  done  after  the  fashion  of  the  inward  endless  life — 
done  righteously,  done  nobly,  done,  upon  occasion,  magnifi- 
cently— ever  regarded  as  a  something  to  be  put  under  the  feet 
of  the  spiritual  man  to  lift  him  to  the  height  of  his  high  call- 
ing. Making  business  a  mean  to  such  end,  it  will  help  us  to 
remember  tbat  this  world  and  the  fashion  of  it  passeth  away, 
but  that  every  deed  done  as  Jesus  would  have  done  it  if  he  had 
been  born  to  begin  his  life  as  a  merchant  instead  of  a  carpen- 
ter, lifts  the  man  who  so  does  it  up  toward  the  bosom  of  Him 
who  created  business  and  all  its  complications,  as  well  as  our 


286  Guild  Court. 

brains  and  hands  that  have  to  deal  with  them.  If  you  were  to 
come  and  ask  me,  '  How  shall  I  do  in  this  or  that  particular 
case  ? '  very  possibly  I  might  be  unable  to  answer  you.  Very 
often  no  man  can  decide  but  the  man  himself.  And  it  is  part 
of  every  man's  training  that  he  should  thus  decide.  Even  if 
he  should  go  wrong,  by  going  wrong  he  may  be  taught  the 
higher  principle  that  would  have  kept  him  right,  and  which 
he  has  not  yet  learned.  One  thing  is  certain,  that  the  man 
who  wants  to  go  right  will  be  guided  right ;  that  not  only  in 
regard  to  the  mission  of  the  Saviour,  but  in  regard  to  every- 
thing, he  that  is  willing  to  do  the  will  of  the  Father  shall 
know  of  the  doctrine. — Now  to  God  the  Father,"  etc. 

The  worship  over,  and  the  congregation  having  retired, 
Lucy  bent  her  trembling  steps  toward  the  vestry,  and  there 
being  none  of  those  generally  repellent  ministers,  pew-openers, 
about,  she  knocked  at  the  door.  By  the  way,  I  wish  clergy- 
men were  more  acquainted  with  the  nature  and  habits  of  those 
who  in  this  loivly — alas,  how  far  from  humble — office  represent 
the  gospel  of  welcome.  They  ought  to  have  at  least  one  ser- 
mon a  year  preached  to  them  upon  their  duties  before  the 
whole  congregation.  The  reception  the  servants  of  any  house 
afford  has  no  little  share  in  the  odor  of  hospitality  which  that 
house  enjoys,  and  hospitality  is  no  small  Christian  virtue. 
Lucy's  troubled  heart  beat  very  fast  as  she  opened  the  door  in 
answer  to  Mr.  Fuller's  cheerful  "Come  in."  But  the  moment 
she  saw  Mr.  Fuller  she  felt  as  if  she  had  been  guilty  of  an  act 
of  impropriety,  and  ought  to  have  waited  in  the  church  till  he 
came  out.  She  drew  back  with  a  murmured  "I  beg  your  par- 
don," but  Mr.  Fuller  at  once  reassured  her.  He  came  for- 
ward, holding  out  his  hand. 

"-  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Burton  ?  I  am  delighted  to  see 
you.  By  your  coming  to  the  vestry,  like  a  brave  woman,  I 
suppose  there  is  something  I  can  do  for  you.  Let  me  hear  all 
about  it.    'Sit  down." 

So  saying,  he  gave  her  a  chair,  and  seated  himself  on  the 
only  remaining  one.  And  as  soon  as  she  saw  that  Mr.  Fuller 
was  not  shocked  at  her  forwardness,  such  was  Lucy's  faith  in 
him,  that  her  courage  returned,  and.  with  due  regard  to  his 
time  and  her  own  dignity,  she  proceeded  at  once  to  explain  to 
him  the  difficulty  in  which  she  found  herself.  It  was  a  lovely 
boldness  in  the  maiden,  springing  from  faith  and  earnestness 
and  need,  that  enabled  her  to  set  forth  in  a  few  plain  words 
the  main  points  of  her  case — that  she  had  been  engaged  for 
many  months  to  a  youth  who  seemed  to  have  forsaken  her, 


Lucy's  New   Trouble.  287 

but  whom  she  did  not  know  to  have  done  so,  though  his  con- 
duct had  been  worse  than  doubtful,  seeing  he  had  fallen  into 
bad  company.  She  would  never  have  troubled  Mr.  Fuller 
about  it  for  that,  for  it  was  not  sympathy  she  wanted ;  but 
there  was  a  gentleman — and  here  she  faltered  more — to  whom 
she  was  under  very  great  obligation,  and  who  said  he  loved 
her  ;  and  she  Wanted  much  to  know  whether  it  was  her  duty 
to  yield  to  his  entreaties. 

My  reader  must  remember  that  Lucy  was  not  one  of  those 
clear-brained  as  well  as  large-hearted  women  who  see  ike  rights 
of  a  thing  at  once.  Many  of  the  best  women  may  be  terribly 
puzzled,  especially  when  an  opportunity  of  self-sacrifice  occurs. 
They  are  always  ready  to  think  that  the  most  painful  way  is 
the  right  one.  This  indicates  a  noble  disposition.  And  the 
most  painful  way  may  be  the  right  one  ;  but  it  is  not  the  right 
one  because  it  is  the  most  painful.  It  is  the  right  way  because 
it  is  the  right  way,  whether  it  be  painful  or  delightful ;  and 
the  notion  of  self-sacrifice  may  be  rooted  in  spiritual  pride. 
Whether  it  be  so  or  not,  the  fact  that  the  wrong  way  is  the 
least  self-indulgent,  is  the  most  painful,  will  not  prevent  it 
from  bringing  with  it  all  the  consequences  that  belong  to  it : 
wrong-doing  cannot  set  things  right,  however  noble  the  motive 
may  be.  Of  course  the  personal  condemnation  and  the  indi- 
vidual degradation  are  infinitely  less  than  if  the  easiest  and 
pleasantest  way  is  chosen  only  because  it  is  the  easiest  and 
pleasantest.  But  God  will  not  make  of  law  a  child's  toy,  to 
indulge  the  vagaries  of  his  best  children. 

When  Lucy  had  finished  setting  forth  her  case,  which  the 
trembling  of  her  voice,  and  the  swelling  of  her  tears,  hardly 
interrupted,  Mr.  Fuller  said  : 

"  Now  you  must  allow  me,  Miss  Burton,  to  ask  you  one  or 
two  plain  questions." 

"  Certainly,  sir.  Ask  me  whatever  you  please.  I  will  an- 
swer honestly." 

"That  I  have  no  doubt  about.  Do  you  love  this  man  to 
whom  you  say  you  are  obliged  ?  " 

"Indeed  I  do  not.  I  hope  I  am  grateful  to  him,  and  I 
would  do  anything  in  return,  except — " 

".I  understand  you.  It  seems  to  me,  though  this  kind  of 
thing  involves  many  questions  too  delicate  to  be  easily  talked 
about,  that,  whatever  he  may  desire  at  the  time,  it  is  doing 
any  man  a  grievous  wrong  to  marry  him  without  loving  him. 
Blinded  by  his  love,  he  may  desire  it  none  the  less  even  if  you 
tell  him  that  you  do  not  love  him ;  but  the  kindest  thing, 


288  Guild  Court. 

even  to  him,  is  to  refuse.  This  is  what  seems  to  me  the 
truth." 

While  Mr.  Fuller  spoke,  Lucy  heaved  such  a  deep  sigh  of 
relief,  that  if  any  corroboration  of  what  she  represented  as  the 
state  of  her  feelings  had  been  necessary,  Mr.  Fuller  had  it. 
After  a  little  pause,  he  went  on  : 

"  Now,  one  question  more  :  Do  you  love  the  other  still  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  said  Lucy,  bursting  at  last  into  a  passion  of  tears. 
"But,  perhaps,"  she  sobbed,  "I  ought  to  give  him  up  alto- 
gether.    I  am  afraid  he  has  not  behaved  well  at  all." 

"To  you?" 

"I  didn't  mean  that.  I  wasn't  thinking  about  myself  just 
then." 

"Has  he  let  you  understand  that  he  has  forsaken  you  ?" 

"No,  no.  He  hasn't  said  a  word.  Only  I  haven't  seen  him 
for  so  long." 

"  There  is,  then,  some  room  for  hope.  If  you  were  to  re- 
solve upon  anything  now,  you  would  be  doing  so  without 
knowing  what  you  were  doing,  because  you  do  not  know  what 
he  is  doing.  It  is  just  possible  it  may  be  a  healthy  shame  that 
is  keeping  him  away  from  you.  It  may  become  your  duty  to 
give  him  up,  but  I  think  when  it  is  so,  it  will  be  clearly  so. 
God  gives  us  all  time  :  we  should  give  each  other  time,  too. 
I  wish  I  could  see  him." 

"I  wish,  indeed,  you  could,  sir.  It  seems  to  me  that  he 
has  not  been  well  brought  up.  His  father  is  a  dreadfully  hard 
and  worldly  man,  as  my  poor  grandmother  knows  too  well ; 
and  his  mother  is  very  religious,  but  her  religion  seems  to  me 
to  have  done  my  poor  Thomas  more  harm  than  his  father's 
worldliness." 

"That  is  quite  possible.  When  you  do  see  him  again,  try 
to  get  him  to  come  and  see  me.  Or  I  will  go  and  see  him.  I 
shall  not  overwhelm  him  with  a  torrent  of  religion  which  he 
cannot  understand,  and  which  would  only  harden  him." 

"There  is  nothing  I  should  wish  more.  But  tell  me  one 
thing,  Mr.  Fuller  :  would  it  be  right  to  marry  him  ?  I  want 
to  understand.  Nothing  looks  farther  ofE ;  but  I  want  to 
know  what  is  right." 

"I  think,"  returned  Mr.  Fuller,  "that  every  willing  heart 
will  be  taught  what  is  right  by  the  time  that  action  is  neces- 
sary.    One  thing  seems  clear,  that  while  you  love  him — " 

"I  shall  always  love  him,"  interrupted  Lucy. 

"I  must  speak  generally,"  said  Mr.  Fuller;  "and  there 
have  been  a  few  instances,"  he  added,  with  the  glimmer  of  a 


Lucy's  New  Trouble.  289 

smile  through,  the  seriousness  of  his  countenance,  "  of  young 
maidens,  and  young  men  no  less,  changing  their  minds  about 
such  matters.  I  do  not  say  you  will.  But  while  you  love  him 
it  is  clear  to  me,  that  you  must  not  accept  the  attentions  of 
any  one  else.  I  could  put  a  very  hard  and  dreadful  name 
upon  that.  There  is  another  thing  equally  clear  to  me — that 
while  he  is  unrepentant,  that  is,  so  long  as  he  does  not  change 
his  ways — turn  from  evil  toward  good — think  better  of  it,  that 
is — you  would  be  doing  very  wrong  to  marry  him.  I  do  not 
say  when,  or  that  ever  you  are  bound  to  stop  loving  him  ;  but 
that  is  a  very  different  thing  from  consenting  to  marry  him. 
Any  influence  for  good  that  a  woman  has  over  such  a  man,  she 
may  exercise  as  much  before  marriage  as  after  it.  Indeed,  if 
the  man  is  of  a  poor  and  selfish  nature,  she  is  almost  certain, 
as  far  as  my  observation  goes,  to  lose  her  influence  after  her 
marriage.  Many  a  woman,  I  fear,  has  married  a  man  with 
the  hope  of  reforming  him,  and  has  found  that  she  only 
afforded  him  opportunity  for  growth  in  wickedness.  I  do  not 
say  that  no  good  at  all  comes  of  it,  so  long  as  she  is  good,  but 
it  is  the  wrong  way,  and  evil  comes  of  it." 

"  I  am  sure  you  are  right,  Mr.  Fuller.  It  would  be  dread- 
ful to  marry  a  bad  man — or  a  man  who  had  not  strength,  even 
for  love  of  a  wife,  to  turn  from  bad  ways.  But  you  won't 
think  the  hardest  of  my  poor  Thomas  yet  ?  He  has.  been  led 
astray,  and  has  too  much  good  in  him  to  be  easily  made  all  bad." 

"I  too  will  hope  so,  for  your  sake  as  well  as  his  own." 

Lucy  rose. 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Fuller.  I  do  not  know  how  to  thank 
you.  I  only  wanted  leave  to  go  on  loving  him.  Thank  you  a 
thousand  times." 

"  Do  not  thank  me  as  if  I  could  give  you  leave  to  do  this  or 
that.    I  only  tell  you  what  seems  to  me  the  truth  of  the  matter." 

"But  is  not  that  the  best  thing  to  give  or  to  receive  ?" 

"Yes,  it  is,"  answered  Mr.  Fuller,  as  Lucy  left  the  vestry. 

It  was  with  a  heart  wonderfully  lightened  that  she  went 
home  to  her  grandmother.  Tins  new  cloud  of  terror  had 
almost  passed  away  ;  it  only  lightened  a  little  on  the  horizon 
when  she  thought  of  having  again  to  hear  what  Mr.  Sargent 
wanted  to  say. 

_  That  same  evening  he  came.  Lucy  never  lifted  her  eyes  to 
his  face,  even  when  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him.  He  misin- 
terpreted her  embarrassment ;  and  he  found  argument  to 
strengthen  his  first  impression  ;  for  a  moment  after,  summon- 
ing all  her  courage,  and  remembering  very  conveniently  a 
19 


290  Guild  Court. 

message  she  had  had  for  him,  Lucy  said  to  her  grand- 
mother : 

'■'  Mr.  Kitely  said  he  would  like  to  see  you,  grannie,  about 
the  papers  for  our  rooms.     He  has  got  some  patterns." 

"  I  haye  done  with  this  world,  child,  and  all  its  vanities," 
said  Mrs.  Boxall,  with  a  touch  of  asperity. 

"  It  would  only  be  polite,  though,  grannie,  as  he  is  taking  so 
much  trouble  about  it,  to  go  and  see  them.     He  is  so  kind  ! " 

"  We're  going  to  pay  him  for  his  kindness,"  said  the  old 
dame,  soured  out  of  her  better  judgment,  and  jealous  of  Mr. 
Sargent  supposing  that  they  were  accepting  charity. 

"  No,  grannie.  That  nobody  ever  could  do.  Kindness  is 
just  what  can't  be  paid  for,  do  what  you  will." 

"I  see  you  want  to  get  rid  of  me,"  she  said,  rising ;  " so  I 
suppose  I  had  better  go.  Things  are  changed.  Old  people 
must  learn  to  do  as  they're  bid.  You'll  be  teaching  me  my 
catechism  next,  I  suppose." 

Mrs.  Boxall  walked  out  of  the  room  with  as  stiff  a  back  as 
she  had  eyer  assumed  in  the  days  of  her  prosperity.  The  mo- 
ment the  door  closed,  Mr.  Sargent  approached  Lucy,  who  had 
remained  standing,  and  would  haye  taken  her  hand,  but  she 
drew  it  away,  and  took  the  lead. 

"  I  am  yery  sorry  if  I  have  led  you  into  any  mistake,  Mr. 
Sargent.  I  was  so  distressed  at  what  you  said  the  other  even- 
ing, that  I  made  this  opportunity  for  the  sake  of  removing  at 
once  any  misapprehension.  I  wish  to  remind  you  that  I  con- 
sidered the  subject  you  resumed  then  as  quite  settled." 

"  But  excuse  me,  Miss  Burton.  I  too  considered  it  settled ; 
but  circumstances  having  altered  so  entirely — " 

"  Could  you  suppose  for  a  moment,  that  because  I  had  lost 
the  phantom  of  a  fortune  which  I  never  possessed,  I  would 
accept  the  man — whose  kindness  I  was  always  grateful  for,  but 
whose  love  I  had  refused  before  because  I  could  not  give  him 
any  in  return  ?  " 

"  No.  I  did  not  suppose  so.  You  gave  me  a  reason  for  re- 
fusing my  attentions  then,  which  I  have  the  best  ground  for 
believing  no  longer  exists." 

"What  was  the  reason  I  gave  you  then  ?" 

"That  you  loved  another." 

"And  what  ground  have  I  given  you  for  supposing  that 
such  has  ceased  to  be  the  case  ? " 

"You  have  not  given  me  any.     He  has.""- 

Lucy  started.  The  blood  rushed  to  her  forehead,  and  then 
back  to  her  heart. 


Lucy's  New  Trouble.  291 

"Where  is  he  ?"  she  cried,  clasping  her  hands.  "  For  God's 
sake,  tell  me." 

"That  at  least  is  answer  enough  to  my  presumptuous  hope," 
returned  Mr.  Sargent,  with  some  bitterness. 

"Mr.  Sargent,"  said  Lucy,  who,  though  trembling  greatly, 
had  now  recovered  her  self-command,  "I  beg  your  pardon  for 
any  pain  I  may  have  occasioned  you.  But,  by  surprising  the 
truth,  you  have  saved  me  the  repetition  of  what  I  told  you  be- 
fore.    Tell  me  what  you  know  of  Mr.  Worboise." 

But  Mr.  Sargent's  feelings — those  especially  occupied  with 
himself  —got  the  better  of  him  now,  bitterly  as  he  regretted  it 
afterward.  He  felt  it  a  wrong  that  such  a  woman  should  pass 
him  by  for  the  sake  of  such  a  man  ;  and  he  answered  in  the 
heat  of  injury : 

"All  I  care  to  know  about  him  is,  that  for  the  sake  of  his 
gams  among  a  low  set  of  gamblers,  he  staked  and  lost  a  dia- 
mond ring — a  rose-diamond,  which  one  of  his  companions 
seemed  to  know  as  the  gift  of  a  lady.  That  is  the  man  for 
whom  Lucy  Burton  is  proud  to  express  her  devotion  ! " 

Lucy  had  grown  very  pale  ;  but  she  would  hold  out  till  Mr. 
Sargent  was  gone.  She  had  an  answer  on  her  lips  ;  but  if  she 
spoke  he  would  stay.     Still  she  would  say  one  word  for  Thomas. 

"Your  evidence  is  hardly  of  the  most  trustworthy  kind, 
Mr.  Sargent.     Good-evening." 

"It  is  of  his  kind,  anyhow,  whatever  that  may  be,"  he  re- 
torted, and  left  the  room.  Before  he  reached  the  bottom  of 
the  stairs,  he  despised  himself  most  heartily,  and  rushed  up 
again  to  attempt  an  apology.  Opening  the  room  door,  he  saw 
Lucy  lying  on  the  floor.  He  thought  she  had  fainted.  But 
the  same  moment,  Mrs.  Boxall,  who  had  only  gone  up  stairs, 
came  down  behind  him,  and  he  thought  it  best  to  leave  and 
write  a  letter.  But  Lucy  had  not  fainted.  She  had  only 
thrown  herself  on  the  floor  in  that  agony  which  would  gladly 
creep  into  the  grave  to  forget  itself.  In  all  grief  unmingled 
with  anger  there  is  the  impulse  to  lie  down.  Lucy  had  not 
heard  Mr.  Sargent  return  or  her  grandmother  reenter,  for 
she  had  been  pressing  her  ears  with  her  hands,  as  if  the  last 
sounds  that  had  entered  had  wounded  them  grievously. 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  !  what  next  ?"  remarked  Mrs.  Boxall.  "I 
dare  say  fashions  have  come  to  that  at  last ! " 

What  she  meant  was  not  very  clear ;  but  the  moment  she 
spoke,  Lucy  started  from  the  floor  and  left,  the  room.  She 
had  not  been  long  in  her  chamber,  however,  before,  with  the 
ingenuity  of  a  lover,  she  had  contrived  to  draw  a  little  weak 


292  Guild  Court. 

comfort  even  out  of  what  Mr.  Sargent  had  told  her.  She  be- 
lieved that  he  had  done  worse  than  part  with  her  ring ;  but 
when  the  thought  struck  her  that  it  must  have  been  for  the 
sake  of  redeeming  that  ring  that  he  had  robbed  his  employer, 
which  was  indeed  the  case,  somehow  or  other,  strange  as  it 
may  seem,  the  offenses  appeared  mutually  to  mitigate  each 
other.  And  when  she  thought  the  whole  matter  over  in  the 
relief  of  knowing  that  she  was  free  of  Mr.  Sargent,  she  quite 
believed  that  she  had  discovered  fresh  grounds  for  taking 
courage. 


CHAPTEE  XLII. 

MRS.  BOXALL  FINDS   A   COMPANION   IN   MISFORTUNE. 

At  last  the  day  arrived  that  Lucy  and  her  grandmother  had 
fixed  for  removing  into  the  bookseller's  house.  The  furniture 
was  all  Mrs.  Boxall's  own,  though,  if  Mr.  Worboise  had 
thought  proper  to  dispute  the  fact,  there  was  nobody  left  who 
could  have  borne  witness  against  it.  Mr.  Kitely  shut  shop 
a  little  earlier  ;  Mr.  Spelt  descended  from  his  perch  ;  and  Mr. 
Dolman  crept  out  of  his  hole — all  to  bear  a  hand  in  the  moving 
of  it.  It  was  dusk  when  they  began,  but  the  darkness  did  not 
hinder  their  diligence,  and,  in  the  course  of  a  couple  of  hours, 
all  the  heavier  articles  were  in  their  new  places.  When  every- 
thing was  got  into  something  like  order,  it  did  not  appear 
that,  save  for  the  diminution  of  space,  they  had  had  such  a 
terrible  downcome.  Lucy  was  heartily  satisfied  with  their 
quarters,  and  the  feeling  that  she  had  now  to  protect  and  work 
for  her  grandmother  gave  a  little  cheerfulness  to  her  behavior, 
notwithstanding  the  weight  on  her  heart.  Mattie  was  import- 
ant, with  an  importance  which  not  even  the  delight  of  having 
Miss  Burton  to  live  with  them  could  assuage ;  for  she  had  to 
preside  at  a  little  supper  which  Mr.  Kitely  had  procured,  in 
honor  of  the  occasion,  from  the  cook-shop  which  supplied  the 
feasts  of  Spelt  and  Poppie.  But  when  things  were  partially 
arranged  for  the  night,  Mrs.  Boxall,  who  was  in  a  very  de- 
spondent condition,  declared  her  intention  of  going  to  bed. 
Lucy  would  gladly  have  done  the  same,  but  she  could  not 
think  of  doing  dishonor  to  the  hospitality  of  their  kind  friend. 

"  Well,  I  am  sorry  the  old  lady  can't  be  prevailed  upon," 


A  Companion  in  Misfortune.  293 

said  Mr.  Kitely.  "Them  sassages  I  know  to  be  genuine — 
none  of  your  cats  or  cats'  meat  either.  I  know  the  very  tree 
they  grew  upon — eh,  princess  ?  And  now  we  shan't  be  able 
to  eat  'em  up." 

"  Why  don't  you  ask  Mr.  Spelt  to  come  in  and  help  us  ?" 
said  Mattie.  « 

"Bless  you  !  he's  gone  to  fetch  his  kid  ;  and  before  they'll 
come  home  they'll  have  bought  their  supper.  They  always  do. 
I  know  their  ways.  But  I  do  believe  that's*  them  gone  up  the 
court  this  minute.     I'll  run  and  see." 

Mr.  Kitely  hurried  out,  and  returned  with  Mr.  Spelt,  Pop- 
pie,  and  the  steam-engine,  which  was  set  down  in  the  middle 
of  the  room. 

"Ain't  I  been  fort'nate?"  said  the  bookseller.  "Poppie 
ain't  sold  all  her  potatoes.  They  was  a-going  to  eat  'em  up 
by  the  way  of  savin'.  So  we've  agreed  to  club,  and  go  share 
and  share.     Ain't  that  it,  Poppie  ?  " 

Poppie  grinned  and  gave  no  other  answer.  But  her  father 
took  up  the  word. 

"It's  very  kind  of  you  to  put  it  so,  Mr.  Kitely.  But  it 
seems  to  me  we're  hardly  fit  company  for  a  lady  like  Miss 
Burton." 

"Surely,  Mr.  Spelt,  we  haven't  been  neighbors  so  long 
without  being  fit  to  have  our  supper  together  ?  "  said  Lucy. 

"That's  very  neighborly  of  you,  miss.  Let  me  assist  you  to 
a  potato,"  said  Spelt,  going  toward  the  steamer.  "  It's  my 
belief  there  ain't  no  better  taters  in  London,  though  I  says  it 
as  buys  'em,"  he  added,  throwing  back  the  lid. 

"  But  we  ain't  going  to  begin  on  the  taters,  Spelt.  You 
come  and  sit  down  here,  and  we'll  have  the  taters  put  on  a 
plate.     That's  the  right  way,  ain't  it,  princess  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  should  say  so,  Mr.  Kitely,*'  answered  Mattie,  who 
had  hitherto  been  too  full  of  her  own  importance  even  to  talk. 
But  Mr.  Spelt  interfered. 

"Them  taters,"  said  he,  with  decision,  "ought  to  be  eaten 
fresh  out  of  the  steamer.  If  you  turn  'em  out  on  to  a  plate,  I 
don't  answer  for  the  consequences.  We'll  put  'em  nearer  the 
table,  and  I'll  sit  by  'em,  with  your  leave,  Miss  Burton,  and 
help  everybody  as  wants  one." 

It  was  remarkable  with  how  much  more  decision  than  had 
belonged  to  him  formerly,  Mr.  Spelt  now  spoke.  Mr.  Kitely, 
after  a  half  hour's  meditation,  next  day,  as  to  whether  the 
cause  of  it  was  Poppie  or  the  potatoes,  came  to  the  wise  con- 
clusion that  between  them  they  had  made  a  man  of  him. 


294  Guild  Court. 

By  this  time  they  were  all  seated  round  the  table. 

"  Mr.  Spelt,  you  be  parson,  and  say  grace,"  said  Eatery,  in 
his  usual  peremptory  tone. 

"  Why  should  you  ask  me,  Mr.  Kitely  ? "  said  the  tailor, 
humbly. 

"  Because  you  know  more  about  that  sort  o'  thing  than  I 
do — and  you  know  it." 

Mr.  Spelt  said  grace  so  devoutly  that  nobody  could  hear  him. 

"  Why  do  you  say  grace  as  if  you  was  ashamed  of  it,  Spelt  ? 
If  I  was  to  say  grace,  now,  I  would  let  you  hear  me." 

"  I  didn't  know  you  cared  about  such  things,"  returned 
Spelt,  evasively. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Kitely,  "  no  more  I  do — or  did,  rather  ; 
for  I'm  afraid  that  Mr.  Fuller  will  get  me  into  bad  habits  be- 
fore he  has  done  with  me.  He's  a  good  man,  Mr.  Fuller,  and 
that's  more  than  I'd  say  for  every  one  of  the  cloth.  They're 
nothing  but  cloth — meaning  no  offense,  Mr.  Spelt,  to  a  honest 
trade." 

"  Perhaps  there  are  more  good  ones  among  'em  than  you 
think,  Mr.  Kitely,"  said  Lucy. 

"There  ud  need  to  be,  miss.  But  I  declare  that  man  has 
almost  made  me  hold  my  tongue  against  the  whole  sect  of 
them.  It  seems  a  shame,  with  him  in  St.  Amos's,  to  say  a 
word  against  Mr.  Potter  in  St.  Jacob's.  I  never  thought  I 
should  take  to  the  church  in  my  old  age." 

"  Old  age,  Mr.  Kitely  ! "  Mattie  broke  in.  "  If  you  talk  in 
that  way,  think  what  you  make  of  me  ! " 

A  general  laugh  greeted  this  remark.  But  Mattie  was  se- 
rious, and  did  not  even  smile. 

Poppie  never  opened  her  lips,  except  to  smile.  But  she  be- 
haved with  perfect  propriety.  Mr.  Spelt  had  civilized  her  so 
far,  and  that  without  much  trouble.  He  never  told  any  one, 
however,  that  it  was  with  anxiety  that  he  set  out  every  night 
at  half -past  nine  to  bring  her  home  ;  for  more  than  once  he 
had  found  her  potato-steamer  standing  alone  on  the  pave- 
ment, while  she  was  off  somewhere,  looking  at  something,  or 
following  a  crowd.  He  had  stood  nearly  half  an  hour  before 
she  came  back  upon  one  of  those  occasions.  All  she  said 
when  she  returned  was,  "  I  thought  I  should  find  you  here, 
daddy." 

But  I  must  not  linger  with  the  company  assembled  in  the 
bookseller's  back-parlor ;  for  their  conversation  will  not  help 
my  reader  on  with  my  story. 

A  very  little  man,  with  very  short,  bandy  legs,  was  trudging 


A  Companion  in  Misfortune.  295 

along  a  wide  and  rather  crowded  thoroughfare,  with  a  pair  of 
workman's  boots  in  his  hand.  It  was  Mr.  Spelt's  sub,  Mr. 
Dolman,  the  cobbler. 

"Well,  Dolly,  how  do  ?"  said  a  man  in  a  long  velveteen 
coat,  with  a  short  pipe  in  his  mouth  and  a  greasy  cloth  cap  on 
his  head.     "You're  late  to-night,  ain't  you,  Dolly  ?" 

"Them  lawyers;  them  lawyers,  Jim  !"  returned  Dolman, 
enigmatically. 

"What  the  blazes  have  you  got  to  do  with  lawyers  ?"  ex- 
claimed Jim  Selter,  staring  at  the  cobbler,  who  for  the  sake  of 
balance  had  now  got  one  boot  in  each  hand,  and  stood  weigh- 
ing the  one  against  the  other. 

"Not  much  for  my  own  part,"  returned  Dolman,  who  was 
feeling  very  important  from  having  assisted  at  his  neighbors' 
flitting.  "  But  there's  good  people  in  our  court  could  tell  you 
another  story." 

I  have  said  that  Mrs.  Boxall  did  anything  but  hold  her 
tongue  about  her  affairs,  and  Dolman  had  heard  Mr.  Wor- 
boise's  behavior  so  thoroughly  canvassed  between  Mr.  Kitely 
and  Mr.  Spelt,  that  he  was  familiar  with  the  main  points  of 
the  case. 

"  Come  and  have  a  drop  of  beer,  "  said  Jim,  "  and  tell  us 
all  about  it." 

No  greater  temptation  could  have  been  held  out  to  Dolman. 
But  he  had  a  certain  sense  of  duty  that  must  first  be  satis- 
fied. 

"No,  Jim.  I  never  touch  a  drop  till  I've  taken  my  work 
home." 

"Where's  that  ?"  asked  Jim. 

"Down  by  the  Minories,"  answered  the  cobbler. 

"Come  along,  then.     I'll  help  you  carry  it." 

"'Taint  heavy.  I'll  carry  it  myself,"  answered  Dolman, 
who,  having  once  been  robbed  on  a  similar  occasion,  seemed, 
in  regard  to  boots,  to  have  lost  his  faith  in  humanity. 

"I  can't  think,  Dolly,  why  you  roost  so  far  from  your  work. 
Now  it's  different  with  me.  My  work's  here  and  there  and 
everywhere  ;  but  yours  is  alius  in  the  same  place." 

"  It  gives  me  a  walk,  Jim.  Besides  it's  respectable.  It's 
having  two  places  of  one's  own.  My  landlady,  Mrs.  Dobbs, 
knoAvs  that  my  shoj)'s  in  a  fashionable  part,  and  she's  rather 
proud  of  me  for  a  lodger  in  consekence.  And  my  landlord, 
that's  Mr.  Spelt,  a  tailor,  and  well-to-do — how's  he  to  know 
that  I  ain't  got  a  house  in  the  suburbs  ?  "  answered  Dolman, 
laughing. 


296  Guild  Court. 

The  moment  lie  had  got  his  money,  and  delivered  the  boots— 
for  that  was  the  order  of  business  between  Dolman  and  his 
customers — they  betook  themselves  to  a  public-house  in  the 
neighborhood,  where  Dolman  conveyed  to  Jim,  with  very  tol- 
erable correctness,  the  whole  story  of  Mrs.  Boxall's  misfortunes. 
Before  he  reached  the  end  of  it,  however,  Jim,  who  had  already 
"put  a  name  upon  something"  with  two  of  his  acquaint- 
ances  that  night,  got  rather  misty,  and  took  his  leave  of  Dol- 
man with  the  idea  that  Lucy  and  her  grandmother  had  been 
turned  out,  furniture  and  all,  into  the  street,  without  a  place 
to  go  to. 

Much  as  she  had  dreaded  leaving  her  own  house,  as  she  had 
always  considered  it,  Mrs.  Boxall  had  a  better  night  in  her  new 
abode  than  she  had  had  for  months,  and  rose  in  the  morning 
with  a  surprising  sense  of  freshness.  Wonderful  things  come 
to  us  in  sleep — none  perhaps  more  wonderful  than  this  reviv- 
ing of  the  colors  of  the  faded  soul  from  being  laid  for  a  few 
hours  in  the  dark — in  God's  ebony  box,  as  George  Herbert  calls 
the  night.  It  is  as  if  the  wakeful  angels  had  been  busy  all  the 
night  preening  the  draggled  and  ruffled  wings  of  their  sleeping 
brothers  and  sisters.  Finding  that  Lucy  was  not  yet  dreseed, 
she  went  down  alone  to  the  back  parlor,  and,  having  nothing 
else  to  do,  began  to  look  at  the  birds,  of  which,  I  have  already 
informed  my  reader,  Mr.  Kitely  kept  a  great  many,  feeding 
and  cleaning  them  himself,  and  teaching  the  more  gifted, 
starlings  and  parrots,  and  such  like  birds  of  genius,  to  speak. 
If  he  did  anything  in  the  way  of  selling  as  well  as  buying  them, 
it  was  quite  in  a  private  way — as  a  gentleman  may  do  with  his 
horses.  .■ 

"  Good-morning,  sir,"  screamed  a  huge  gray  parrot  the  mo- 
ment she  entered,  regardless  of  the  sex  of  his  visitor.  It  was 
one  the  bookseller  had  bought  of  a  sailor  somewhere  about  the 
docks,  a  day  or  two  before,  and  its  fame  had  not  yet  spread 
through  the  neighborhood,  consequently  Mrs.  Boxall  was  con- 
siderably startled  by  the  salutation.  "Have  you  spliced  the 
main-brace  this  morning,  sir?"  continued  the  parrot,  and,* 
without  waiting  for  a  reply,  like  the  great  ladies  who  inquire 
after  an  inferior's  family  and  then  look  out  of  the  window, 
burst  into  the  song,  "  There's  a  sweet  little  cherub,"  and, 
stopping  as  suddenly  at  the  word,  followed  it  with  the  inquiry, 
"  How's  your  mother  ?"  upon  which  point  Mrs.  Boxall  may, 
without  any  irreverence,  be  presumed  to  have  been  a  little  in 
the  dark.  The  next  moment  the  unprincipled  animal  poured 
forth  his  innocent  soul  in  a  torrent  of  imprecations  which, 


A  Companion  in  Misfortune.  297 

growing  as  furious  as  fast,  reached  the  ears  of  Mr.  Kitely.  He 
entered  in  a  moment  and  silenced  the  animal  with  prompt 
rebuke,  and  the  descent  of  an  artificial  night  in  the  shape  of  a 
green  cloth  over  his  cage — the  vengeance  of  the  lower  Jove. 
The  creature  exploded  worse  than  ever  for  a  while,  and  then 
subsided.  Meantime  the  bookseller  turned  to  Mrs.  Boxall  to 
apologize. 

"  I  haven't  had  him  long,  ma'am — only  a  day  or  two.  He's 
been  ill  brought  up,  as  you  see,  poor  bird  !  I  shall  have  a 
world  of  trouble  to  cure  him  of  his  bad  language.  If  I  can't 
cure  him  I'll  wring  his  neck." 

"  The  poor  creature  doesn't  know  better,"  said  Mrs.  Boxall. 
"Wouldn't  it  be  rather  hard  to  kill  him  for  it  ?" 

"  Well,  but  what  am  I  to  do  ?  I  can't  have  such  words 
running  out  and  in  of  my  princess's  ears  all  day." 

"  But  you  could  sell  him,  or  give  him  away,  you  know,  Mr. 
Kitely." 

"A  pretty  present  he  would  be,  the  rascal !  And  for  selling 
him,  it  would  be  wickedness  to  put  the  money  in  my  pocket. 
There  was  a  time,  ma'am,  when  I  would  have  taught  him  such 
words  myself,  and  thought  no  harm  of  it ;  but  now,  if  I  were 
to  sell  that  bird,  ma'am — how  should  I  look  Mr.  Fuller  in  the 
face  next  Sunday  ?  No  ;  if  I  can't  cure  him,  I  must  twist  his 
neck.     We'll  eat  him,  ma'am  ;  I  dare  say  he's  nice." 

He  added,  in  a  whisper :  "  I  wanted  him  to  hear  me.  There's 
no  telling  how  much  them  creatures  understand." 

But  before  Mr.  Kitely  had  done  talking,  Mrs.  Boxall's  at- 
tention was  entirely  taken  up  with  another  bird,  of  the  paro- 
quet species.  It  was  the  most  awfully  grotesque,  the  most 
pitiably  comic  animal  in  creation.  It  had  a  green  head,  with 
a  band  of  red  round  the  back  of  it ;  while  white  feathers  came 
down  on  each  side  of  its  huge  beak,  like  the  gray  whiskers  of  a 
retired  military  man.  This  head  looked  enormous  for  the  rest 
of  the  body,  for  from  the  nape  of  the  neck  to  the  tail,  except 
•  a  few  long  feathers  on  the  shoulders  of  its  wings,  blue  like 
those  of  a  jay,  there  was  not  another  feather  on  its  body  :  it 
was  as  bare  as  if  it  had  been  plucked  for  roasting.  A  more 
desolate,  poverty-stricken,  wretched  object,  can  hardly  be  con- 
ceived. The  immense  importance  of  his  head  and  beak  and 
gray  whiskers,  with  the  abject  nakedness — more  than  naked- 
ness, pluckedness — of  his  body  was  quite  beyond  laughing  at. 
It  was  far  fitter  to  make  one  cry.  But  the  creature  was  so 
absolutely,  perfectly  self-satisfied,  without  a  notion  of  shame, 
or  even  discomfort,  that  it  appeared  impossible  he  could  ever 


298  Guild  Court 

have  seen  himself  behind.  He  must  surely  have  fancied  him- 
self as  glorious  as  in  his  palmiest  clays.  And  his  body  vas  so 
thin,  and  his  skin  so  old  and  wrinkled — I  wish  I  could  set  him 
in  the  margin  for  my  younger  readers  to  see  him.  He  hopped 
from  place  to  place,  and  turned  himself  round  before  the  spec- 
tators with  such  an  absence  of  discomposure,  that  one  could 
not  help  admiring  his  utter  sang-froid,  almost  envying  his 
perfect  self-possession.  Observing  that  his  guest  was  absorbed 
in  the  contemplation  of  the  phenomenon,  Mr.  Kitely  said  : 

"  You're  a-wondering  at  poor  Widdles.  Widdles  was  an  old 
friend  of  mine  I  named  the  bird  after  before  he  lost  his  great- 
coat all  but  the  collar.     Widdles  !  Widdles  ! "  ' 

The  bird  came  close  up  to  the  end  of  his  perch,  and,  setting 
his  head  on  one  side,  looked  at  his  master  with  one  round  yel- 
low eye. 

"  He's  the  strangest  bird  I  ever  saw,"  said  Mrs.  Boxall.  "If 
you  talked  of  wringing  Ms  neck,  now,  I  shouldn't  wonder, 
knowing  you  for  a  kind-hearted  man,  Mr.  Kitely." 

"Wring  Widdles'  neck  !"  exclaimed  the  bookseller.  "His 
is  the  last  neck  1  would  think  of  wringing.  See  how  bravely 
he  bears  misfortune.  Nobody  could  well  lose  more  than  Wid- 
dles, and  nobody  could  well  take  it  lighter.  He's  a  sermon, 
is  that  bird.  His  whole  worldly  wealth  consists  in  his  wig. 
They  was  a  fine  pair  once,  only  he  was  always  henpecked.  His 
mate  used  to  peck  him  because  he  wasn't  able  to  peck  her,  for 
he  was  the  smaller  of  the  two.  They  always  reminded  me  of 
Spelt  and  his  wife.  But  when  they  were  took  ill,  both  of 
them,  she  gave  in,  and  he  wouldn't.  Death  took  his  feathers, 
and  left  him  jolly  without  them.     Bless  him,  old  Widdles." 

"Well,  it's  a  curious  taste  of  yours,  I  must  say,  Mr.  Kitely. 
But  some  people,  no  more  than  some  birds,  ain't  to  be  account- 
ed for." 

Mr.  Kitely  chose  to  consider  this  a  good  sally  of  wit,  and 
laughed  loud  and  long.  Mrs.  Boxall  laughed  a  little  too,  and 
was  pleased  with  herself.  And  from  that  moment  she  began' 
to  take  to  the  bird. 

"  Try  him  with  a  bit  of  sugar,"  said  Mr.  Kitely,  going  to 
the  carved  cabinet  to  get  a  piece,  which  he  then  handed  to 
Mrs.  Boxall. 

The  bird  was  friendly  and  accepted  it.  Mrs.  Boxall  was 
pleased  with  him  now  as  well  as  with  herself,  and  before  long 
a  firm  friendship  was  established  between  the  two,  which  went 
so  far  that  Widdles  would,  when  she  put  her  hand  into  his 
cage,  perch  upon  her  bony  old  finger,  and  allow  himself  to  be 


A  Companion  in  Misfortune.  299 

\ifted  out.  There  was  no  fear  of  his  even  attempting  to  fly 
away,  for  he  was  perfectly  aware  of  his  utter  incapacity  in  that 
direction  of  bird-like  use  and  custom.  Before  many  days  had 
passed  she  had  become  so  much  attached  to  the  bird  that  his 
company  did  not  a  little  to  shield  her  from  the  inroads  of  re- 
current regret,  mortification,  and  resentment. 

One  evening  when  she  came  home  from  her  now  rather 
numerous  engagements,  Lucy  found  her  grandmother  seated  at 
the  table,  with  the  bird  in  her  hand,  rubbing  him  all  over  very 
gently  for  fear  of  hurting  him,  with  something  she  took  with 
her  finger  from  a  little  pot  on  the  table. 
-"What  are  you  doing  with  Widdles,  grannie  ?"  she  said. 

"  Trying  a  little  bear's  grease,  child.  Why  shouldn't  I  ?  " 
she  added,  angrily,  when  Lucy  laughed. 

"  No  reason  in  the  world  why  you  shouldn't,  grannie.  You 
mustn't  mind  my  laughing." 

"  I  don't  see  why  anybody  should  laugh  at  misfortune,"  re- 
turned Mrs.  Boxall,  severely.  "How  would  you  like  to  be  in 
the  condition  of  this  bird  yourself?" — without  a  feather,  she 
was  going  to  say,  but  just  pulled  up  in  time.  She  could  not 
help  laughing  herself  now,  but  she  went  on,  nevertheless,  with 
her  work  of  charity.  "Who  knows,"  she  said,  "but  they 
may  grow  again  ?  " 

"  Grow  again  !  "  shrieked  the  gray  parrot,  in  the  tone  of  a 
violin  in  unskillful  hands. 

"Yes,  grow  again,  you  witch  ! "  said  Mrs.  Boxall.  "I  don't 
see  why  the  devil  shouldn't  be  in  you  as  well  as  in  your  betters. 
Why  shouldn't  they  grow  again  ?  " 

"  Grow  again  ! "  reiterated  the  gray  parrot.  "  Grow  again  ! 
Widdles  !  Widdles  !  Widdles  !    Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! " 

"It  shall  grow  again,"  retorted  the  old  lady.  "If  bear's 
grease  won't  do,  I'll  spend  my  last  penny  on  a  bottle  of  Macas- 
sar ;  and  if  it  doesn't  grow  then  I'll  pluck  your  back  and  stick 
them  into  his." 

Mrs.  Boxall  had  got  into  a  habit  of  talking  thus  with  the 
bird,  which  the  bookseller  had  already  nearly  cured  of  his 
wicked  words  by  instant  punishment  following  each  offense. 

"  Stick  them  into  his  !  cried  the  bird  like  an  echo,  and  re- 
fused to  speak  again. 

Sometimes,  however,  he  would  say  a  naughty  word  evidently 
for  the  sake  of  testing  his  master,  or  as  if  he  wondered  what 
punishment  he  would  have  this  time — for  the  punishments 
were  various.  On  such  occasions  he  would  shriek  out  the 
word,  "  Duck  his  head,"  and  dart  to  the  opposite  side  of  the 


300  Guild  Court. 

cage,  keeping  one  eye  full  on  his  master,  with  such  an  expres- 
sion that  his  profile  looked  like  a  whole  face  with  a  Cyclopean 
one  eye  in  it. 

Whether  Mrs.  Boxall  was  at  last  successful  in  her  benevolent 
exertions  I  am  unable  to  say,  for  her  experiments  were  still 
going  on  when  the  period  arrived  with  which  my  story 
must  close.  She  often  asserted  that  she  saw  them  begin- 
ning to  sprout ;  and  to  see  her  with  spectacles  on  nose,  exam- 
ining the  poor  withered  bluish  back  of  Widdles,  was  ludicrous 
or  touching,  according  to  the  humor  of  the  beholder.  Wid- 
dles seemed  to  like  the  pains  she  took  with  him,  however ; 
and  there  is  no  doubt  of  one  thing,  that  she  was  rewarded  for 
her  trouble  tenfold  in  being  thus  withdrawn  from  the  contem- 
plation of  her  own  wrongs  and  misfortunes.  Widdles  thus 
gave  her  many  a  peaceful  hour  she  would  not  in  all  prob- 
ability have  otherwise  enjoyed.  Nor  were  her  attentions  con- 
fined to  him ;  through  him,  she  was  introduced  to  the  whole 
regiment  of  birds,  which  she  soon  began  assisting  Mr.  Kitely 
to  wait  upon.  Mattie  had  never  taken  to  them.  While  gran- 
nie, as  she,  too,  called  her,  was  busy  with  them,  Mattie  would 
sit  beside  at  her  needlework,  scarcely  looking  up  even  when  she 
addressed  an  occasional  remark  to  grannie.  It  was  a  curious 
household,  and  fell  into  many  singular  groups. 

But  here  I  must  leave  Mrs.  Boxall  with  her  bird-compan- 
ions, which,  save  for  the  comfort  they  afforded  her  in  taking 
her  mind  off  herself,  have  no  active  part  in  the  story.  Through 
Mrs.  Morgenstern's  influence  and  exertions,  Lucy  soon  had  as 
much  to  do  in  the  way  of  teaching  as  she  could  compass,  and 
her  grandmother  knew  no  difference  in  her  way  of  living  from 
what  she  had  been  accustomed  to. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

WHAT  THOMAS   WAS   ABOUT. 

Wheist  Thomas  left  Rotherhithe  with  Jim  Salter,  he  had  no 
idea  in  his  head  but  to  get  away  somewhere.  Like  the  ostrich, 
he  wanted  some  sand  to  stick  his  head  into.  But  wherever  he 
went  there  were  people,  even  policemen,  about,  and  not  one  of 
the  places  they  went  through  looked  more  likely  to  afford  him 


JVJiat  Thomas  was  About  301 

shelter  than  another.  Had  he  given  Jim  any  clearer  informa- 
tion concerning  the  necessity  he  was  in  of  keeping  dark,  per- 
haps he  would  have  done  differently  with  him.  As  it  was,  he 
contented  himself  with  piloting  him  about  the  lower  docks  and 
all  that  maritime  part  of  London.  They  walked  about  the 
whole  day  till  Thomas  was  quite  weary.  Nor  did  refuge  seem 
nearer  than  before.  All  this  time  the  police  might  be  on  his 
track,  coming  nearer  and  nearer  like  the  blood-hounds  that 
they  were.  They  had  some  dinner  at  an  eating-house,  where 
Thomas's  fastidiousness  made  yet  a  farther  acquaintance  with 
dirt  and  disorder,  and  he  felt  that  he  had  fallen  from  his  own 
sphere  into  a  lower  order  of  things,  and  could  never  more 
climb  into  the  heaven  from  whence  he  had  fallen.  But  the 
fear  of  yet  a  lower  fall  into  a  prison  and  the  criminal's  dock 
kept  him  from  dwelling  yet  upon  what  he  had  lost.  At  night 
Jim  led  him  into  Eatcliff  Highway,  the  Paradise  of  sailors  at 
sea — the  hell  of  sailors  on  shore.  Thomas  shrunk  from  the 
light  that  filled  the  street  from  end  to  end,  blazing  from  innu- 
merable public-houses,  through  the  open  doors  of  which  he 
looked  across  into  back  parlors,  where  sailors  and  women  sat 
drinking  and  gambling,  or  down  long  passages  to  great  rooms 
with  curtained  doorways,  whence  came  the  sounds  of  music 
and  dancing,  and  through  which  passed  and  re-passed  sea- 
faring figures  and  gaily  bedizened  vulgar  girls,  many  of  whom, 
had  the  weather  been  warmer,  would  have  been  hanging  about 
the  street-doors,  laughing  and  chaffing  the  passers-by,  or  getting 
up  a  dance  on  the  pavement  to  the  sound  of  the  music  within. 
It  was  a  whole  streetful  of  low  revelry.  Poor  Jack  !  Such  is 
his  coveted  reward  on  shore  for  braving  Death,  and  defying 
him  to  his  face.  He  escapes  from  the  embrace  of  the  bony 
phantom  to  hasten  to  the  arms  of  his  far  more  fearful  com- 
panion— the  nightmare  Life-in-Death — "who  thicks  man's 
blood  with  cold."  Well  may  that  pair  casting  their  dice  on 
the  skeleton  ship  symbolize  the  fate  of  the  sailor,  for  to  the 
one  or  the  other  he  falls  a  victim. 

Opposite  an  open  door  Jim  stopped  to  speak  to  an  acquaint- 
ance. The  door  opened  directly  upon  a  room  ascending  a  few 
steps  from  the  street.  Bound  a  table  sat  several  men — sailors, 
of  course — apparently  masters  of  coasting  vessels.  A  lithe 
lascar  was  standing  with  one  hand  on  the  table,  leaning  over 
it,  and  talking  swiftly,  with  snaky  gestures  of  the  other  hand. 
He  was  in  a  rage.  The  others  burst  out  laughing.  Thomas 
saw  something  glitter  in  the  hand  of  the  Hindoo.  One  of  the 
sailors  gave  a  cry,  and  started  up,  but  staggered  and  fell. 


302  Guild  Court 

Before  he  fell  the  lascar  was  at  the  door,  down  the  steps  with 
a  bound,  and  out  into  the  street.  Two  men  were  after  him 
at  full  speed,  but  they  had  no  chance  with  the  light-built 
Indian. 

"  The  villain  has  murdered  a  man,  Jim,"  said  Thomas — 
"  in  there — look  ! " 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  he  ain't  much  the  worse,"  returned  Jim. 
"  They're  always  a  outing  with  their  knives  here." 

For  all  his  indifference,  however,  Jim  started  after  the  Hin- 
doo, but  he  was  out  of  sight  in  another  moment. 

Jim  returned. 

"  He's  crowding  all  sail  for  Tiger  Bay,"  said  he.  "  I  shouldn't 
care  to  follow  him  there.     Here's  a  Peeler." 

"  Come  along,  Jim,"  said  Thomas.  "  Don't  stand  here  all 
the  night." 

"  Why  you  ain't  afraid  o'  the  place,  are  you,  guv'nor  ?" 

Thomas  tried  to  laugh,  but  he  did  not  enjoy  the  allusion — 
in  the  presence  of  a  third  person  especially. 

"Well,  good-night,"  said  Jim  to  his  acquaintance. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  resumed,  "  do  you  know  the  figure  of 
Potts's  ken  ?  " 

"  What  Potts  ?    I  don't  know  any  Potts." 

"  Yes  you  do.  Down  somewhere  about  Lime  'us,  you  know. 
We  saw  him  that  night — " 

Here  Jim  whispered  his  companion,  who  answered  aloud  : 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know.  Let  me  see.  It's  the  Marmaid,  I  think. 
You  ain't  a-going  there,  are  you  ?  " 

"Don't  know.  Mayhap.  I'm  only  taking  this  gen'leman 
a  sight-seeing.     He's  from  the  country." 

"Good-night,  then."     And  so  they  parted. 

It  was  a  sudden  idea  of  Jim's  to  turn  in  the  direction  of  the 
man  whose  child  Thomas  had  saved.  But  Thomas  did  not 
know  where  he  was  taking  him. 

"Where  will  you  sleep  to-night,  guv'nor?"  asked  Jim,  as 
they  walked  along. 

" I  don't  know,"  answered  Thomas.  "I  must  leave  you  to 
find  me  a  place.  But  I  say,  Jim,  can  you  think  of  anything  I 
could  turn  to  ?  for  my  money  won't  last  me  long." 

"Turn  to  !"  echoed  Jim.  *  "Why  a  man  had  need  be  able 
to  turn  to  everything  by  turns  to  make  a  livin'  nowadays. 
You  ain't  been  used  to  hard  work,  by  your  hands.  Do  you 
know  yer  Bible  well  ?  " 

"  Pretty  well,"  answered  Thomas  ;  "  but  I  don't  know  what 
that  can  have  to  do  with  making  a  living," 


Wliat  Thomas  was  About.  303 

"  Oh,  don't  you,  guv'nor  ?  "  Perhaps  you  don't  know  what 
yer  Bible  means.     It  means  pips  and  picturs." 

"  You  mean  the  cards.  No,  no.  I've  had  enough  of  that. 
I  don't  mean  ever  to  touch  them  again." 

"  Hum  !  Bitten,"  said  Jim  to  himself,  but  so  that  Thomas 
heard  him. 

"  Not  very  badly,  Jim.  In  the  pocket-book  I  told  you  I  lost 
I  had  a  hundred  pounds,  won  at  cards  the  night  before  last." 

"My  eye!"  exclaimed  Jim.  "What  a  devil  of  a  pity! 
But  why  don't  you  try  your  luck  again  ? "  he  asked,  after  a 
few  moments  of  melancholy  devoted  to  the  memory  of  the 
money. 

"  Look  here,  Jim.  I  don't  know  where  to  go  to  sleep.  I 
have  a  comfortable  room  that  I  dare  not  go  near  ;  a  father — a 
rich  man,  I  believe — who  would  turn  me  out ;  and,  in  short, 
I've  ruined  myself  forever  with  card-playing.  The  sight  of  a 
pack  would  turn  me  sick,  I  do  believe." 

"Sorry  for  you,  guv'nor.  I  know  a  fellow,  though,  that 
makes  a  good  thing  of  the  thimble." 

"I've  no  turn  for  tailoring,  I'm  afraid." 

"  Beggin'  your  pardon,  guv'nor,  but  you  are  a  muff  !  You 
never  thought  I  meant  a  gen'leman  like  you  to  take  to  a  beastly 
trade  like  that.  I  meant  the  thimble  and  peas,  you  know,  at 
fairs,  and  such  like.  It's  all  fair,  you  know.  You  tell  'em 
they  don't  know  where  the  pea  is  and  they  don't.  I  know  a 
friend  o'  mine  '11  put  you  up  to  it  for  five  or  six  bob.  Bless 
you  !  there's  room  for  free  trade  and  money  made." 

Thomas  could  hardly  be  indignant  with  Jim  for  speaking 
according  to  his  kind.  But  when  he  looked  into  it,  it  stung 
him  to  the  heart  to  think  that  every  magistrate  would  regard 
him  as  capable  of  taking  to  the  profession  of  thimble-rigging 
after  what  he  had  been  already  guilty  of.  Yet  in  all  his  deal- 
ings with  cards  Thomas  had  been  scrupulously  honorable.  He 
said  no  more  to  Jim  about  finding  something  to  do. 

They  had  gone  a  good  way,  and  Thomas's  strength  was  be- 
ginning to  fail  him  quite.  Several  times  Jim  had  inquired 
after  the  Marmaid,  always  in  public-houses,  where  he  paid  for 
the  information  or  none,  as  the  case  might  be,  by  putting  a 
name  upon  something  at  Thomas's  expense  ;  so  that  he  began 
to  be  rather  uplifted. 

At  length  he  called  out  joyfully  : 

"  Here's  a  fishy  one,  guv'nor,  at  last!     Come  along." 

So  saying,  he  pushed  the  swing  door,  to  which  was  attached 
a  leather  strap  to  keep  it  from  swinging  outward,  and  entered. 


304  Guild  Court 

It  admitted  them  to  a  bar  served  by  a  big  fat  man  with  an 
apron  whose  substratum  was  white  at  the  depth  of  several 
strata  of  dirt,  and  a  nose  much  more  remarkable  for  color  than 
drawing,  being  in  both  more  like  a  half-ripe  mulberry  than 
anything  else  in  nature.  He  had  little  round,  watery  eyes,  and 
a  face  indicative  of  nothing  in  particular,  for  it  had  left  its 
original  conformation  years  behind.  As  soon  as  they  entered, 
Jim  went  straight  up  to  the  landlord,  and  stared  at  him  for  a 
few  moments  across  the  counter.  "  You  don't  appear  to  know 
me,  guv'nor  ?  "  he  said,  for  the  many  things  he  had  drank  to 
find  the  way  had  made  him  barky.  His  vocabulary  of  address, 
it  will  be  remarked,  was  decidedly  defective. 

"Well,  I  can't  take  upon  me  to  say  as  I  do,"  answered  the 
man,  putting  his  thumbs  in  the  strings  of  his  apron,  and  look- 
ing at  Jim  with  a  mixture  of  effort  and  suspicion  on  his  puffy 
face.  "  And  I'll  be  bound  to  say,"  remarked  Jim,  turning  to- 
ward Thomas,  "that  you  don't  know  this  gen'leman  either. 
Do  'ee  now  guv'nor  ?  On  yer  honor,  right  as  a  trivet  ?  No, 
ye  don't." 

"  Can't  say  I  do." 

"Look  at  him,  then.  Ain't  he  fit  to  remember  ?  Don't  he 
look  respectable  ?  " 

"  Come,  none  o'  your  chaff !  Say  what  you've  got  to  say. 
What  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  Cut  it  short,  Jim,"  said  Thomas. 

"How's  your  young  marmaid  as  took  to  the  water  sonat'ral 
at  the  Horsleydown  tother  day,  Mr.  Potts  ?  "  asked  Jim,  lean- 
ing on  his  elbows  on  the  counter. 

"  Jolly,"  answered  the  landlord.     "  Was  you  by  ?  " 

"  Wasn't  I,  then  !  And  there's  a  guv'nor  was  nearer  than  I 
was.  Mr.  Potts,  that's  the  very  gen'leman  as  went  a  header 
into  the  water  and  saved  her,  Mr.  Potts.  Hold  up  yer  head, 
guv'nor." 

"  You're  a  chaffin  of  me,  I  know,"  said  Potts. 

"Come,  come,  Jim,  don't  make  a  fool  of  me,"  said  Thomas. 

"I  wish  I  had  known  you  were  bringing  me  here.  Come 
along.     I  won't  stand  it." 

But  Jim  was  leaning  over  the  counter,  speaking  in  a  whis- 
per to  the  down-bent  landlord. 

"  You  don't  mean  it  ?  "  said  the  latter. 

"Ask  the  mis'ess,  then,"  said  Jim. 

"  You  don't  mean  it ! "  repeated  the  landlord,  in  a  husky 
voice,  and  with  increase  of  energy.  Then  looking  to- 
ward Thomas,  "What  will   he  take? "and  with  the  words 


Wliat  Thomas  was  About.  305 

turned  his  back  upon  Jim,  and  his  face  toward  a  shelf  on 
which  stood  his  choicest  bottles  between  two  cask-like  protu- 
berances. He  got  down  one  of  brandy,  but  Thomas,  who  was 
vexed  at  being  brought  there  as  if  he  wanted  some  acknowl- 
edgment of  the  good  deed  he  had  been  fortunate  enough  to 
perform,  refused  to  take  anything. 

"  What  will  you  take  then  ?  "  said  the  man,  whose  whole 
stock  of  ideas  seemed  to  turn  upon  taking. 

But  at  the  moment  a  woman  entered  from  behind  the 
shop. 

"There,  mis'ess,"  said  her  husband,  "can  you  tell  who  that 
gentleman  is  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  exclaimed  : 

"  Bless  my  soul  !  It's  the  gentleman  that  took  our  Bessie 
out  of  the  water.  How  do  you  do,  sir  ?  "  she  continued,  with 
mingled  pleasure  and  respect,  as  she  advanced  from  behind 
the  counter,  and  courtesied  to  Thomas. 

"None  the  worse  for  my  ducking,  thank  you,"  said  Thomas, 
holding  out  his  hand  in  the  delight  a  word  of  real  friendship 
always  gives. 

She  shook  it  warmly,  and  would  hardly  let  it  go. 

"Oh!  isn't  he,  then  ?"  muttered  Jim,  mysteriously,  but 
loud  enough  for  Potts  to  hear. 

"Won't  you  come  in,  sir?"  said  the  woman,  turning  to 
lead  the  way. 

"  Thank  you,"  answered  Thomas.  "  I  have  been  walking 
about  all  day,  and  am  very  tired.  If  you  would  let  me  sit 
down  awhile — and — perhaps  it  wouldn't  be  giving  you  too 
much  trouble  to  ask  for  a  cup  of  tea,  for  my  head  aches 
rather." 

"Come  in,  sir,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  truest  hospitality. 
"That  I  will,  with  pleasure,  I'm  sure." 

Thomas  followed  her  into  a  dingy  back  room,  where  she 
made  him  lie  down  on  a  sofa  from  which  he  would  have  re- 
coiled three  days  ago,  but  for  which  he  was  very  grateful  now. 
She  then  bustled  about  to  get  him  some  tea,  and  various  little 
delicacies  besides,  in  the  shape  of  ham,  and  shrimps,  etc.,  etc.  It 
was  pretty  clear  from  her  look,  and  the  way  she  pressed  her  of- 
ferings of  gratitude,  that  she  had  a  true  regard  for  inward  com- 
forts, if  not  for  those  outward  luxuries  of  neatness  and  clean- 
liness. 

The  moment  Thomas  was  out  of  the  shop,  Jim  Salter  began 
to  be  more  communicative  with  Mr.  Potts. 

"None  the  worse  !"  said  he,  reflectively.  "Oh,  no.  That's 
20 


306  Guild  Court. 

the  way  your  quality  talk  about  a  few  bank-notes.  Nothing 
but  a  hundred  pounds  the  worst.     Oh,  no." 

"You  don't  mean  it  ?  "  said  Mr.  Potts,  making  his  eyes  as 
round  as  two  sixpences. 

"Well,  to  be  sure,"  said  Salter,  "I  can't  take  my  davy  on 
it ;  'cause  as  how  I've  only  his  word  for  it.  But  he  don't  look 
like  a  cony-catcher,  do  he  ?  He's  a  deal  too  green  for  that,  I 
can  tell  you.  "Well,  he  is  green  ! "  repeated  Jim,  bursting  into 
a  quiet  chuckle. 

"  I  don't  mean  he's  a  fool,  neither.  There's  a  vasty  heap  o* 
difference  betwixt  a  leek  in  yer  eye  and  a  turnip  in  yer  brain- 
box.     Ain't  there  now,  guv'nor  ?  " 

"  You  don't  mean  it  ?  "  said  Mr.  Potts,  staring  more  than  ever. 

"  What  don't  I  mean,  Mr.  Potts  ?" 

"  You  don't  mean  that  that  'ere  chap  ?  What  do  you  mean 
about  them  hundred  pounds  ?  " 

"Now  I'll  tell  'ee,  guv'nor.  It's  a  great  pleasure  to  me  to 
find  I  can  tell  a  story  so  well." 

"  There  you  are — off  again,  no  mortal  man  can  tell  to  where. 
You  ain't  told  me  no  story  yet." 

"Ain't  I?  How  came  it  then,  guv'nor,  that  I  ha'  made 
you  forget  your  usual  'ospitable  manners  ?  If  I  hadn't  ha' 
been  telling  you  a  story,  you'd  ha' — I  know  you'd  ha'  asked  me 
to  put  a  name  upon  something  long  ago." 

Mr.  Potts  laughed,  and  saying,  "I  beg  yer  pardon,  Mr. 
Salter,  though  I'm  sure  I  don't  remember  ever  meetin'  of  you 
afore,  only  that's  no  consequence ;  the  best  o'  friends  must 
meet  some  time  for  the  first  time,"  turned  his  face  to  the  shelf 
as  he  had  done  before,  and,  after  a  little  hesitation,  seemed 
to  conclude  that  it  would  be  politic  to  take  down  the  same 
bottle.  Jim  tossed  off  the  half  of  his  glassful,  and,  setting 
the  rest  on  the  counter,  began  his  story.  Whether  he  wished 
to  represent  himself  as  Thomas's  confidant,  or,  having  come 
to  his  conclusions  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  believed  himself 
justified  in  representing  them  as  the  facts  of  the  case,  it  is  not 
necessary  to  inquire  ;  the  account  he  gave  of  Thomas's  posi- 
tion was  this  :  That  when  Thomas  went  overboard  after  little 
Bessie,  he  had  in  the  breast  of  his  coat  a  pocket-book,  with  a 
hundred  pounds  of  his  master's  in  it ;  that  he  dared  not  go 
home  without  it ;  that  the  police  were  after  him ;  and,  in 
short,  that  he  was  in  a  terrible  fix.  Mr.  Pojbts  listened  with  a 
general  stare,  and  made  no  reply. 

"You'll  give  him  a  bed  to-night,  won't  you,  guv'nor  ?  I'll 
come  back  in  the  morning  and  see  what  can  be  done." 


What  Thomas  was  About.  307 

Jim  finished  his  glass  of  brandy  as  if  it  had  been  only  the 
last  drops,  and  set  it  on  the  counter  with  a  world  of  suggestion 
in  the  motion,  to  which  Mr.  Potts  mechanically  replied  by 
filling  it  again,  saying  as  he  did  so,  in  a  voice  a  little  huskier 
than  usual,  "All  right."  Jim  tossed  off  the  brandy,  smacked 
his  lips,  said  "Thank  you,  and  good-night,"  and  went  out  of 
the  beer-shop.  Mr.  Potts  stood  for  five  minutes  motionless, 
then  went  slowly  to  the  door  of  the  back  parlor,  and  called  his 
wife.  Leaving  Thomas  to  finish  his  meal  by  himself,  Mrs. 
Potts  joined  her  husband  and  they  had  a  talk  together.  He 
told  her  what  Jim  had  just  communicated  to  him,  and  they 
held  a  consultation,  the  first  result  of  which  was  that  Mrs. 
Potts  proceeded  to  get  a  room — the  best  she  could  offer — 
ready  for  Thomas.  He  accepted  her  hospitality  with  gratitude, 
and  was  glad  to  go  to  bed. 

Meantime,  leaving  his  wife  to  attend  to  the  thirst  of  the 
public,  Mr.  Potts  set  out  to  find  his  brother-in-law,  the  cap- 
tain of  a  collier  trading  between  Newcastle  and  London,  who 
was  at  the  moment  in  the  neighborhood,  but  whose  vessel  was 
taking  in  ballast  somewhere  down  the  river.  He  came  upon 
him  where  he  had  expected  to  find  him,  and  told  him  the 
whole  story. 

The  next  morning,  when  Thomas,  more  miserable  than  ever, 
after  rather  a  sleepless  night,  came  down  stairs  early,  he  found 
his  breakfast  waiting  for  him,  but  not  his  breakfast  only :  a 
huge  seafaring  man,  with  short  neck  and  square  shoulders, 
dressed  in  a  blue  pilot-coat,  was  seated  in  the  room.  He  rose 
when  Thomas  entered,  and  greeted  him  with  a  bow  made  up 
of  kindness  and  patronage.  Mrs.  Potts  came  in  the  same 
moment. 

"This  is  my  brother,  Captain  Smith,  of  the  Raven"  she 
said,  "  come  to  thank  you,  sir,  for  what  you  did  for  his  little 
pet,  Bessie." 

"Well,  I  donnow,"  said  the  captain,  with  a  gruff  breeziness 
of  manner.  "I  came  to  ask  the  gentleman  if,  bein'  on  the 
loose,  he  wouldn't  like  a  trip  to  Newcastle,  and  share  my  little 
cabin  with  me." 

It  was  the  first  glimmer  of  gladness  that  had  lightened 
Thomas's  horizon  for  what  seemed  to  him  an  age. 

"Thank  you,  thank  you  !"  he  said  ;  "it  is  the  very  thing 
for  me." 

And,  as  he  spoke,  the  awful  London  wilderness  vanished, 
and  open  sea  and  sky  filled  the  world  of  his  imaginings. 

"When  do  you  sail  ?"  he  asked. 


308  Guild  Court 

"To-night,  I  hope,  with  the  ebb,"  said  the  captain  ;  "but 
you  had  better  come  with  me  as  soon  as  you've  had  your 
breakfast,  and  we'll  go  on  board  at  once.  You  needn't  mind 
about  your  chest.  You  can  rough  it  a  little,  I  dare  say.  I  can 
lend  you  a  jersey  that'll  do  better  than  your  'longshore  togs." 

Thomas  applied  himself  to  his  breakfast  with  vigor.  Hope 
even  made  him  hungry.  How  true  it  is  that  we  live  by  hope  ! 
Before  he  had  swallowed  his  last  mouthful,  he  started  from 
his  seat. 

"  You  needn't  be  in  such  a  hurry,"  said  the  captain. 
"  There's  plenty  of  time.     Stow  your  prog." 

"  I  have  quite  done.    But  I  must  see  Mr.  Potts  for  a  minute." 

He  went  to  the  bar,  and,  finding  that  Jim  had  not  yet  made 
his  appearance,  asked  the  landlord  to  change  him  a  sovereign, 
and  give  half  to  Jim. 

"It's  too  much,"  said  Mr.  Potts. 

"I  promised  .him  a  day's  wages." 

"Five  shillings  is  over  enough,  besides  the  brandy  I  gave 
him  last  night.     He  don't  make  five  shillings  every  day." 

Thomas,  however,  to  the  list  of  whose  faults  stinginess 
could  not  be  added,  insisted  on  Jim  having  the  half  sovereign, 
for  he  felt  that  he  owed  him  far  more  than  that. 

In  pulling  out  the  small  remains  of  his  money,  wondering  if 
he  could  manage  to  buy  a  jersey  for  himself  before  starting, 
he  brought  out  with  it  two  bits  of  pasteboard,  the  sight  of 
which  shot  a  pang  to  his  heart  :  they  were  the  pawn-tickets 
for  his  watch  and  Lucy's  ring,  which  he  had  bought  back 
from  the  holder  on  that  same  terrible  night  on  which  he  had 
lost  almost  everything  worth  having.  It  was  well  he  had  only 
thrust  them  into  the  pocket  of  his  trousers,  instead  of  putting 
them  into  his  pocket-book.  They  had  stuck  to  the  pocket, 
and  been  dried  with  it,  had  got  loose  during  the  next  day,  and 
now  came  to  light,  reminding  him  of  his  utter  meanness,  not 
to  say  dishonesty,  in  parting  with  the  girl's  ring  that  he  might 
follow  his  cursed  play.  The  gleam  of  gladness  which  the  hope 
of  escaping  from  London  gave  him  had  awaked  his  conscience 
more  fully  ;  and  he  felt  the  despicableness  of  his  conduct  as 
he  had  never  felt  it  before.  How  could  he  have  done  it  ? 
The  ring,  to  wear  which  he  had  been  proud  because  it  was  not 
his  own,  but  Lucy's,  he  had  actually  exposed  to  the  contamina- 
tion of  vile  hands — had  actually  sent  from  her  pure,  lovely 
person  into  the  pocket  of  a  foul  talker,  and  thence  to  a  pawn- 
broker's shop.  He  could  have  torn  himself  to  pieces  at  the 
thought.     And  now  that  she  was  lost  to  him  forever,  was  he 


What  TJwmas  was  About.  309 

to  rob  her  of  lier  mother's  jewel  as  well  ?  He  must  get  it 
again.  But  if  he  went  after  it  now,  even  if  he  had  the  money 
to  redeem  it,  he  might  run  into  the  arms  of  the  searching  Law, 
and  he  and  it  too  would  he  gone.  But  he  had  not  the  money. 
The  cold  dew  broke  out  on  his  face,  as  he  stood  beside  the 
pump-handles  of  the  beer-shop.  But  Mr.  Potts  had  been 
watching  him  for  some  time.  He  knew  the  look  of  those 
tickets,  and  dull  as  his  brain  was,  with  a  dullness  that  was 
cousin  to  his  red  nose,  he  divined  at  once  that  Thomas's  pain- 
ful contemplation  had  to  do  with  some  effects  of  which  those 
tickets  were  the  representatives.  He  laid  his  hand  on  Thomas's 
shoulder  from  behind.     Thomas  gave  a  great  start. 

"I  beg  your  pardon  for  frightening  of  you,  sir,"  said  Mr. 
Potts;  "but  I  believe  a  long  experience  in  them  things 
makes  me  able  to  give  you  good  advice." 

"What  things  ?"  asked  Thomas. 

"  Them  things,"  repeated  Potts,  putting  a  fat  forefinger  first 
on  the  one  and  then  on  the  other  pawn-ticket.  '"Twasn't 
me,  nor  yet  Bessie.  'Tis  long  since  I  was  in  my  uncle's.  All 
I  had  to  do  there  was  a-getting  of  'em  down  the  spout.  I 
never  sent  much  up  it ;  my  first  wife,  Joan — not  Bessie,  bless 
her  !  Now  I  ain't  no  witch,  but  I  can  see  with  'alf  a  heye  that 
you've  got  summat  at  your  uncle's  you  don't  like  to  leave 
there,  when  you're  a-goin'  a  voyagin'  to  the  ends  o'  the  earth. 
Have  you  got  the  money  as  well  as  the  tickets  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear,  no  !  "  answered  Thomas,  almost  crying. 

"  Come  now,"  said  Potts,  kindly,  "sweep  out  the  chimley. 
It's  no  use  missing  the  crooks  and  corners,  and  having  to  send 
a  boy  up  after  all.  Sweep  it  out.  Tell  me  all  about  it,  and 
I'll  see  what  I  can  do — or  can't  do,  it  may  be," 

Thomas  told  him  that  the  tickets  were  for  a  watch — a  gold 
watch,  with  a  compensation  balance — and  a  diamond  ring. 
He  didn't  care  about  the  watch  ;  but  he  would  give  his  life  to 
get  the  ring  again. 

"  Let  me  look  at  the  tickets.  How  much  did  you  get  on 
'em  separate  ?  " 

Thomas  said  he  did  not  know,  but  gave  him  the  tickets  to 
examine. 

"  Potts  looked  at  them.  "  You  don't  care  so  much  for  the 
watch  ?"  he  said. 

"  No,  I  don't,"  answered  Thomas  ;  "  though  my  mother 
did  give  it  to  me,"  he  added,  ruefully. 

"  Why  don't  you  offer  'em  both  of  the  tickets  for  the  ring," 
then  ?  "  said  Potts. 


310  Guild  Court. 

"  What  ?  "  said  Thomas.     "  I  don't  see—" 

"You  give  'em  tome,"  returned  Potts.  "Here,  Bess  !  you 
go  in  and  have  a  chat  with  the  captain — I'm  going  out,  Bes- 
sie, for  an  hour.     Tell  the  captain  not  to  go  till  I  come  back." 

So  saying,  Potts  removed  his  white  apron,  put  on  a  black 
frock  coat  and  hat,  and  went  out,  taking  the  tickets  with 
him. 

Mrs.  Potts  brought  a  tumbler  of  grog  for  her  brother,  and 
he  sat  sipping  it.  Thomas  refused  to  join  him  ;  for  he  reaped 
this  good  from  his  sensitive  organization,  that  since  the  night 
on  which  it  had  helped  to  ruin  him,  he  could  scarcely  endure 
even  the  smell  of  strong  drink.  It  was  rather  more  than  an 
hour  before  Mr.  Potts  returned,  during  which  time  Thomas 
had  been  very  restless  and  anxious.  But  at  last  his  host 
walked  into  the  back  room,  laid  a  small  screw  of  paper  before 
him,  and  said  : 

"  There's  your  ring,  sir.  You  won't  want  your  watch  this 
voyage.  I've  got  it,  though ;  but  I'm  forced  to  keep  it,  in 
case  I  should  be  behind  with  my  rent.  Any  time  you  look  in, 
I  shall  have  it,  or  know  where  it  is." 

Thomas  did  what  he  could  to  express  his  gratitude,  and  took 
the  ring  with  a  wonderful  feeling  of  relief.  It  seemed  like  a 
pledge  of  farther  deliverance.  He  begged  Mr.  Potts  to  do 
what  he  pleased  with  the  watch  ;  he  didn't  care  if  he  never  saw 
it  again  ;  and  hoped  it  would  be  worth  more  to  him  than  what 
it  had  cost  him  to  redeem  them  both.  Then,  after  many  kind 
farewells,  he  took  his  leave  with  the  captain  of  the  Raven. 
As  they  walked  along,  he  could  not  help  looking  round  every 
few  yards  ;  but  after  his  new  friend  had  taken  him  to  a  shop 
where  he  bought  a  blue  jersey  and  a  glazed  hat,  and  tied  his 
coat  up  in  a  handkerchief — his  sole  bundle  of  luggage — he  felt 
more  comfortable.  In  a  couple  of  hours  he  was  on  board  of 
the  Raven,  a  collier  brig  of  a  couple  of  hundred  tons.  They 
set  sail  the  same  evening,  but  not  till  they  reached  the  Nore 
did  Thomas  begin  to  feel  safe  from  pursuit. 

The  captain  seemed  a  good  deal  occupied  with  his  own 
thoughts,  and  there  were  few  things  they  understood  in  com- 
mon, so  that  Thomas  was  left  mostly  to  his  own  company  ; 
which,  though  far  from  agreeable,  was  no  doubt  the  very  best 
for  him  under  the  circumstances.  For  it  was  his  real  self  that 
he  looked  in  the  face — the  self  that  told  him  what  he  was, 
showed  him  whence  he  had  fallen,  what  he  had  lost,  how  he 
had  hitherto  been  wasting  his  life,  and  how  his  carelessness 
had  at  length  thrown  him  over  a  precipice  up  which  he  could 


What  Thomas  was  About.  ■    311 

not  climb — there  was  no  foothold  upon  it.  But  this  was  not 
all :  he  began  to  see  not  only  his  faults,  but  the  weakness  of 
his  character,  the  refusal  to  combat  which  had  brought  him  to 
this  pass.  His  behavior  to  Lucy  was  the  bitterest  thought  of 
all.  She  looked  ten  times  more  lovely  to  him  now  that  he  had 
lost  her.  That  she  should  despise  him  was  terrible — even 
more  terrible  the  likelihood  that  she  would  turn  the  rich  love 
of  her  strong  heart  upon  some  one  else.  How  she  had  en- 
treated him  to  do  her  justice  !  and  he  saw  now  that  she  had 
done  so  even  more  for  his  sake  than  for  her  own.  He  had  not 
yet  any  true  idea  of  what  Lucy  was  worth.  He  did  not  know 
how  she  had  grown  since  the  time  when,  with  all  a  girl's  inex- 
perience, she  had  first  listened  to  his  protestations.  While  he 
had  been  going  down  the  hill,  she  had  been  going  up.  Long 
before  they  had  been  thus  parted,  he  would  not  have  had  a 
chance  of  winning  her  affections  had  he  had  then  to  make  the 
attempt.  But  he  did  see  that  she  was  infinitely  beyond  him, 
infinitely  better  than — to  use  a  common  phrase—  he  could  have 
deserved  if  he  had  been  as  worthy  as  he  fancied  himself.  I  say 
a  common  phrase,  because  no  man  can  ever  deserve  a  woman. 
Gradually — by  what  gradations  he  could  not  have  told — the 
truth,  working  along  with  his  self-despising,  showed  him 
something  of  all  this ;  and  it  was  the  first  necessity  of  a  nature 
like  his  to  be  taught  to  look  down  on  himself.  As  long  as  he 
thought  himself  more  than  somebody,  no  good  was  to  be  ex- 
pected of  him.  Therefore,  it  was  well  for  him  that  the  worth- 
lessness  of  his  character  should  break  out  and  show  itself  in 
some  plainly  worthless  deed,  that  he  might  no  longer  be  able 
to  hide  himself  from  the  conviction  and  condemnation  of  his 
own  conscience.  Hell  had  come  at  last ;  and  he  burned  in 
its  fire. 

He  was  very  weary,  and  went  to  bed  in  a  berth  in  the  cabin. 
But  he  was  awaked  while  it  was  yet  quite  dark  by  the  violent 
rolling  and  pitching  of  the  vessel,  and  the  running  to  and  fro 
overhead.  He  got  up  at  once,  dressed  in  haste,  and  clambered 
up  the  companion-ladder.  It  was  a  wild  scene.  It  had  come 
on  to  blow  hard.  The  brig  was  under  reefed  topsails  and  jib  : 
but  Thomas  knew  nothing  of  sea  affairs.  She  was  a  good  boat, 
and  rode  the  seas  well.  There  was  just  light  enough  for  him 
to  see  the  water  by  the  white  rents  m  its  darkness.  Fortun- 
ately, he  was  one  of  those  few  favored  individuals  in  whose 
nerves  the  motion  of  a  vessel  finds  no  response — I  mean  he  did 
not  know  what  sea-sickness  was.  And  that  storm  came  to  him 
a  wonderful  gift  from  the  Father  who  had  not  forgotten  his 


312  Guild  Court. 

erring  child — so  strangely  did  it  harmonize  with  his  troubled 
mind.  New  strength,  even  hope,  invaded  his  weary  heart  from 
the  hiss  of  the  wind  through  the  cordage  as  it  bellied  out  from 
the  masts  ;  his  soul  rejoiced  in  the  heave  of  the  wave  under 
the  bows  and  its  swift  rush  astern  ;  and  though  he  had  to  hold 
hard  by  the  weather  shrouds,  not  a  shadow  of  fear  crossed  his 
mind.  This  may  have  partly  come  from  life  being  to  him  now 
a  worthless  thing,  save  as  he  had  some  chance  of — he  did  not 
know  what ;  for  although  he  saw  no  way  of  recovering  his  lost 
honor,  and  therefore  considered  that  eternal  disgrace  was  his, 
even  if  God  and  man  forgave  him,  there  was  yet  a  genuine  ray 
of  an  unknown  hope  borne  into  him,  asl  say,  from  the  crests  of 
those  broken  waves.  But  I  think  it  was  natural  to  Thomas  to 
fear  nothing  that  merely  involved  danger  to  himself.  In  this 
respect  he  possessed  a  fine  physical  courage.  It  was  in  moral 
courage — the  power  of  looking  human  anger  and  contempt  in 
the  face,  and  holding  on  his  own  way— that  he  was  deficient. 
I  believe  that  this  came  in  a  great  measure  from  a  delicate, 
sensitive  organization.  He  could  look  a  storm  in  the  face  ; 
but  a  storm  in  a  face  he  could  not  endure  ;  he  quailed  before 
it.  He  would  sail  over  a  smooth  human  sea,  if  he  might ; 
when  a  wind  rose  there,  he  would  be  under  bare  poles  in  a 
moment.  Of  course  this  sensitiveness  was  not  in  itself  an  evil, 
being  closely  associated  with  his  poetic  tendencies,  which  ought 
to  have  been  the  center  from  which  all  the  manlier  qualities 
were  influenced  for  culture  and  development ;  but  he  had 
been  spoiled  in  every  way,  not  least  by  the  utterly  conflicting 
discords  of  nature,  objects,  and  character  in  his  father  and 
mother.  But  although  a  man  may  be  physically  brave  and 
morally  a  coward — a  fact  too  well  known  to  be  insisted  upon — 
a  facing  of  physical  danger  will  help  the  better  courage  in  the 
man  whose  will  is  at  all  awake  to  cherish  it ;  for  the  highest 
moral  courage  is  born  of  the  will,  and  not  of  the  organization. 
The  storm  wrought  thus  along  with  all  that  was  best  in  him. 
In  the  fiercest  of  it  that  night,  he  found  himself  often  kissing 
Lucy's  ring,  which,  as  soon  as  he  began  to  know  that  they 
were  in  some  danger,  and  not  till  then,  he  had,  though  with  a 
strong  feeling  of  the  sacrilege  of  the  act,  ventured  to  draw  once 
more  upon  his  unworthy  hand. 

The  wind  increased  as  the  sun  rose.  If  he  could  only  have 
helped  the  men  staggering  to  and  fro,  as  they  did  on  the  great 
sea  in  the  days  of  old  !  But  he  did  not  know  one  rope  from 
another.  Two  men  were  at  the  tiller.  One  was  called  away 
on  sOme  emergency  aloft.     Thomas  sprang  to  his  place. 


Thomas  Returns  to  London.  313 

"I  will  do  whatever  you  tell  me,"  lie  said  to  the  steersman  ;" 
" only  let  me  set  a  man  free." 

Then  he  saw  it  was  the  captain  himself.  He  gave  a  nod, 
and  a  squirt  of  tobaco-juice,  as  cool  as  if  he  had  been  steering 
with  a  light  gale  over  a  rippling  sea.  Thomas  did  his  best, 
and  in  five  minutes  had  learned  to  obey  the  word  the  captain 
gave  him  as  he  watched  the  binnacle.  About  an  hour  after 
the  sun  rose  the  wind  began  to  moderate  ;  and  before  long 
the  captain  gave  up  the  helm  to  the  mate,  saying  to  Thomas  : 

"We'll  go  and  have  some  breakfast.  You've  earned  your 
rations,  anyhow.  Your  father  ought  to  have  sent  you  to  sea. 
It  would  have  made  a  man  of  you." 

This  was  not  very  complimentary.  But  Thomas  had  only  a 
suppressed  sigh  to  return  for  answer.  He  did  not  feel  himself 
worth  defending  any  more. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

THOMAS   EETURKS   TO    LOK1 

.^±t  this  Thomas  made  rapid  progress  in  the  favor  of  Cap- 
tain Smith.  He  had  looked  upon  him  as  a  landlubber  before, 
with  the  contempt  of  his  profession  ;  but  when  he  saw  that, 
clerk  as  he  was,  he  was  yet  capable  at  sea,  he  began  to  respect 
him.  And  as  Thomas  wakened  up  more  and  more  to  an  inter- 
est in  what  was  going  on  around  him,  he  did  not  indulge  in 
giving  him  fool's  answers  to  the  questions  he  asked,  as  so  many 
sea-farers  would  have  been  ready  to  do  ;  and  he  soon  found, 
that  Thomas's  education,  though  it  was  by  no  means  a  first- 
rate  one,  enabled  him  to  ask  more  questions  with  regard  to 
the  laws  of  wind  and  water  and  the  combination  of  forces  than 
he  was  quite  able  to  solve.  Before  they  reached  the  end  of  the 
voyage,  Thomas  knew  the  rigging  pretty  well,  and  could  make 
himself  useful  on  board.  Anxious  to  ingratiate  himself  with 
the  captain — longing  almost  unconsciously  for  the  support  of 
some  human  approbation,  the  more  that  lie  had  none  to  give 
himself — he  laid  himself  out  to  please  him.  Having  a  toler- 
ably steady  head,  he  soon  found  himself  able  to  bear  a  hand  in 
taking  in  a  reef  in  the  foretop-sail,  and  he  could  steer  by  the 
course  with  tolerable  steadiness.     The  sailors  were  a  not  un- 


314  Guild  Court 

sociable  set  of  men,  and  as  he  presumed  upon  nothing,  they 
too  gave  him  what  help  they  could,  not  without  letting  off  a 
few  jokes  at  his  expense,  in  the  laughter  following  on  which 
he  did  his  best  to  join.  The  captain  soon  began  to  order  him 
about  like  the  rest,  which  was  the  best  kindness  he  could  have 
shown  him  ;  and  Thomas's  obedience  was  more  than  prompt — 
it  was  as  pleasant  as  possible.  He  had  on  bis  part  some 
information  to  give  the  captain;  and  their  meals  in  the  cabin 
together  were  often  merry  enough. 

"Do  you  think  you  could  ever  make  a  sailor  of  me  ?"  asked 
Tom,  one  day. 

"Not  a  doubt  of  it,  my  boy,"  the  captain  answered.  "A 
few  voyages  more,  and  you'll  go  aloft  like  a  monkey." 

"Where  do  you  think  of  making  your  next  voyage,  sir?" 
asked  Tom. 

"Well,  I'm  part  owner  of  the  brig,  and  can  do  pretty  much 
as  I  like.     I  did  think  of  Dundee." 

"I  should  have  thought  they  have  coal  enough  of  their  own 
thereabouts." 

"A  cargo  of  English  coal  never  comes  amiss.  It's  better 
than  theirs  by  a  long  way." 

"  Would  you  take  me  with  you  ?  " 

"To  be  sure,  if  you  can't  do  better." 

"  I  can't.    I  don't  want  anything  but  my  rations,  you  know." 

"  You'll  soon  be  worth  your  wages.  I  can't  say  you  are  yet, 
you  know." 

"  Of  course  not.     You  must  have  your  full  crew  besides." 

"  We're  one  hand  short  this  voyage  ;  and  you've  done  some- 
thing to  fill  the  gap." 

"I'm  very  glad,  I'm  sure.  But  what  would  you  advise  me 
to  do  when  we  reach  Newcastle  ?  It  will  be  some  time  before 
you  get  off  again." 

"Not  long.  If  you  like  to  take  your  share  in  getting  the 
cargo  on  board,  you  can  make  wages  by  that." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  Thomas,  whom  this  announce- 
ment greatly  relieved. 

"  It's  dirty  work,"  said  the  captain. 

"There's  plenty  of  water  about,"  answered  Thomas. 

When  they  came  to  Newcastle,  Thomas  worked  as  hard  as 
any  of  them,  getting  the  ballast  out  and  the  new  cargo  in. 
He  had  never  known  what  it  was  to  work  before  ;  and  though 
it  tired  him  dreadfully  at  first,  it  did  him  good. 

Among  the  men  was  one  wbom  he  liked  more  than  the  rest. 
He  had  been  in  the  merchant  service,  and  had  sailed  to  India 


Thomas  Returns  to  London.  315 

and  other  places.  He  knew  more  than  his  shipmates,  and  had 
only  taken  to  the  coasting  for  a  time  for  family  reasons.  With 
him  Thomas  chiefly  consorted  when  their  day's  work  was  over. 
With  a  growing  hope  that  by  some  means  he  might  rise  at  last 
into  another  kind  of  company,  he  made  the  best  he  conld  of 
what  he  had,  knowing  well  that  it  was  far  better  than  he  de- 
served, and  far  better  than  what  of  late  he  had  been  voluntarily 
choosing.  His  hope,  however,  alternated  with  such  fits  of 
misery  and  despair,  that  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  bodily  work 
he  had  to  do,  he  thought  he  would  have  lost  his  reason.  I 
believe  not  a  few  keep  hold  of  their  senses  in  virtue  of  doing 
hard  work.  I  knew  an  earl's  son,  an  heir,  who  did  so.  And  I 
think  that  not  a  few,  especially  women,  lose  their  senses  just 
from  having  nothing  to  do.  Many  more,  who  are  not  in  dan- 
ger of  this,  lose  their  health,  and  more  still  lose  their  purity 
and  rectitude.  In  other  words,  health — physical,  mental, 
moral,  and  spiritual — requires,  for  its  existence  and  continu- 
ance, work,  often  hard  and  bodily  labor. 

This  man  lived  in  Newcastle,  and  got  Thomas  a  decent 
room  near  his  own  dwelling,  where  he  slept.  One  evening 
they  had  been  walking  together  about  the  place  till  they  were 
tired.  It  was  growing  late,  and  as  they  were  some  distance 
from  home,  they  went  into  a  little  public  house  which  Eobins 
knew,  to  get  a  bit  of  bread  and  cheese  and  some  ale.  Eobins 
was  a  very  sober  man,  and  Thomas  felt  no  scruple  in  accom- 
panying him  thus,  although  one  of  the  best  things  to  be  said 
for  Thomas  was,  that  ever  since  he  went  on  board  the  Raven 
he  had  steadily  refused  to  touch  spirits.  Perhaps,  as  I  have 
hinted  before,  there  was  less  merit  in  this  than  may  appear, 
for  the  very  smell  was  associated  with  such  painful  memories 
of  misery  that  it  made  him  shudder.  Sometimes  a  man's 
physical  nature  comes  in  to  help  him  to  be  good.  For  such  a 
dislike  may  grow  into  a  principle  which  will  last  after  the  dis- 
like has  vanished. 

They  sat  down  in  a  little  room  with  colored  prints  of  ships 
in  full  sail  upon  the  walls,  a  sanded  floor,  in  the  once  new 
fashion  which  superseded  rushes,  and  an  ostrich  egg  hanging 
from  the  ceiling.  The  landlady  was  a  friend  of  Eobins,  and 
showed  them  this  attention.  On  the  other  side  of  a  thin  par- 
tition was  the  ordinary  room,  where  the  ordinary  run  of  cus- 
tomers sat  and  drank  their  grog.  There  were  only  two  or  three 
in  there  when  our  party  entered.  Presently,  while  Thomas 
and  Eobins  were  sitting  at  their  supper,  they  heard  two  or 
three  more  come  in.     A  hearty  recognition  took  place,  and 


316  Guild  Court. 

fresh  orders  were  given.  Thomas  started  and  listened.  He 
thought  he  heard  the  name  Ningpo. 

Now,  from  Thomas's  having  so  suddenly  broken  off  all  con- 
nection with  his  friends,  he  knew  nothing  of  what  had  been 
going  on  with  regard  to  the  property  Mr.  Boxall  had  left  be- 
hind him.  He  thought,  of  course,  that  Mrs.  Boxall  would  in- 
herit it.  It  would  not  be  fair  to  suppose,  however,  that  this 
added  to  his  regret  at  having  lost  Lucy,  for  he  was  humbled 
enough  to  be  past  that.  The  man  who  is  turned  out  of  Para- 
dise does  not  grieve  over  the  loss  of  its  tulips,  or,  if  he  does, 
how  came  he  ever  to  be  within  its  gates  ?  But  the  very  fact 
that  the  name  of  Boxall  was  painful  to  him,  made  the  name 
of  that  vessel  attract  and  startle  him  at  once. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  said  Bobins. 

"  Didn't  you  hear  some  one  in  the  next  room  mention  the 
Ningpo  ?  "  returned  Thomas. 

"  Yes.     She  was  a  bark  in  the  China  trade." 

"  Lost  last  summer  on  the  Cape  Verdes.  I  knew  the  cap- 
tain— at  least,  I  didn't  know  him,  but  I  knew  his  brother  and 
his  family.     They  were  all  on  board  and  all  lost." 

"Ah  !"  said  Bobins,  "  that's  the  way  of  it,  you  see.  People 
oughtn't  to  go  to  sea  but  them  as  has  business  there.  Did  you 
say  the  crew  was  lost  as  well  ?  " 

"  So  the  papers  said." 

Bobins  rose,  and  went  into  the  next  room.  He  had  a  suspi- 
cion that  he  knew  the  voice.  Almost  the  same  moment  a  rough 
burst  of  greeting  came  to  Thomas's  ears  :  and  a  few  minutes 
after,  Bobins  entered,  bringing  with  him  a  sailor  so  rough,  so 
hairy,  so  brown,  that  he  looked  as  if  he  must  be  proof  against 
any  attack  of  the  elements — case-hardened  against  wind  and 
water. 

"  Here's  the  gentleman,"  said  Bobins,  "as  knew  your  cap- 
tain, Jack." 

"Do,  sir  ?"  said  Jack,  touching  an  imaginary  sou'wester. 

"  What'll  you  have  ?"  asked  Tom. 

This  important  point  settled,  they  had  a  talk  together,  in 
which  Jack  opened  up  more  freely  in  the  presence  of  Bobins 
than  he  would,  have  felt  interest  enough  to  do  with  a  stranger 
alone  who  was  only  a  would-be  sailor  at  best — a  fact  which 
could  not  be  kept  a  secret  from  an  eye  used  to  read  all  sorts  of 
signals.  I  will  not  attempt  to  give  the  story  in  Jack's  lingo. 
But  the  certainty  was  that  he  had  been  on  board  the  Ningpo 
when  she  went  to  pieces — that  he  had  got  ashore  on  a  spar, 
after  sitting  through  the  night  on  the  stern,  and  seeing  every 


Thomas  Beturns  to  London.  317 

soul  lost,  as  far  as  he  believed,  but  himself.  He  had  no  great 
power  of  description,  and  did  not  volunteer  much  ;  but  he  re- 
turned very  direct  answers  to  all  the  questions  Thomas  put  to 
him.  Had  Thomas  only  read  some  of  the  proceedings  in  the 
Court  of  Probate  during  the  last  few  months,  he  would  have 
known  better  what  sort  of  questions  to  put  to  him.  Almost 
the  only  remark  Jack  volunteered  was  : 

"  Poor  little  July  !  how  she  did  stick  to  me,  to  be  sure  ! 
But  she  was  as  dead  as  a  marlin -spike  long  afore  the  starn 
broke  up." 

"  Were  you  long  on  the  island  ?  "  asked  Tom. 

"No,  not  long,"  answered  the  sailor.  "I  always  was  one 
of  the  lucky  ones.  I  was  picked  up  the  same  day  by  a  brigan- 
tine  bound  from  Portingale  to  the  Sambusy." 

Little  did  Tom  think  how  much  might  be  involved  in  what 
Jack  said.  They  parted,  and  the  friends  went  home  together. 
They  made  a  good  voyage,  notwithstanding  some  rough 
weather,  to  Dundee,  failed  in  getting  a  return  cargo,  and  went 
back  to  Newcastle  in  ballast.  From  Newcastle  their  next 
voyage  was  to  London  again. 

"  If  you  would  rather  not  go  to  London,"  said  the  master  to 
Tom,  "there's  a  friend  of  mine  here  who  is  just  ready  to  start 
for  Aberdeen.  I  dare  say  if  I  were  to  speak  to  him  he  would 
take  you  on  board." 

But  Tom's  heart  was  burning  to  see  Lucy  once  more — if 
only  to  see  her  and  restore  her  ring.  If,  he  thought,  he  might 
but  once  humble  himself  to  the  dust  before  her — if  he  might 
but  let  her  see  that,  worthless  as  he  was,  he  worshiped  her,  his 
heart  would  be  easier.  He  thought,  likewise,  tbat  what  with 
razoring  and  tanning,  and  the  change  of  his  clotbes,  he  was 
not  likely  to  be  recognized.  And  besides,  by  this  time  the 
power  must  be  out  of  Mr.  Stopper's  hands  ;  at  least  Lucy  must 
have  come  to  exert  her  influence  over  the  affairs  of  the  busi- 
ness, and  she  would  not  allow  them  to  drive  things  to  extrem- 
ity with  him,  worthless  as  he  was.  He  would  venture,  come  of 
it  what  might.  So  he  told  the  captain  that  he  would  much 
prefer  to  work  his  passage  to  London  again.  It  was  a  long 
passage  this  time,  and  very  rough  weather. 

It  was  with  strange  feelings  that  Thomas  saw  once  more  the 
turrets  of  the  Tower  of  London.  Danger — exposure,  it  might 
be — lay  before  him,  but  he  thought  only  of  Lucy,  not  of  the 
shame  now.  It  was  yet  early  morning  when  Captain  Smith 
and  he  went  on  shore  at  Shadwell.  The  captain  was  going  to 
see  an  old  friend  in  the  neighborhood,  and  after  that  to  Lime- 


318  Guild  Court. 

house,  to  the  Mermaid,  to  see  his  sister.  Thomas  wanted  to  be 
alone,  for  he  had  not  yet  succeeded  in  making  up  his  mind 
what  he  was  going  to  do.  So  he  sent  a  grateful  message  by  the 
captain,  with  the  addition  that  he  would  look  in  upon  them 
in  the  evening. 

Left  alone,  without  immediate  end  or  aim,  he  wandered  on, 
not  caring  whither  he  went,  but,  notwithstanding  his  heavy 
thoughts,  with  something  of  the  enjoyment  the  sailor  feels  in 
getting  on  shore  even  after  only  a  fortnight  at  sea.  It  was  a 
bright,  cold,  frosty  morning,  in  the  month  of  March.  With- 
out knowing  his  course,  Thomas  was  wandering  northward  ; 
and  after  he  had  gone  into  a  coffee-shop  and  had  some  break- 
fast, he  carelessly  resumed  his  course  in  the  same  direction. 
He  found  that  he  was  in  the  Cambridge  Eoad,  but  whither 
that  led  he  had  no  idea.  Nor  did  he  know,  so  absorbed  was 
he  in  his  own  thoughts,  even  after  he  came  into  a  region  he 
knew,  till,  lifting  up  his  head,  he  saw  the  gray,  time-worn 
tower,  that  looks  so  strong  and  is  so  shaky,  of  the  old  church 
of  Hackney,  now  solitary,  its  ancient  nave  and  chancel  and  all 
having  vanished,  leaving  it  to  follow  at  its  leisure,  wearied  out 
with  disgust  at  the  church  which  has  taken  its  place,  and  is 
probably  the  ugliest  building  in  Christendom,  except  the 
parish-church  of  a  certain  little  town  in  the  north  of  Aberdeen- 
shire. This  sent  a  strange  pang  to  his  heart,  for  close  by,  that 
family  used  to  live  whose  bones  were  now  whitening  among 
those  rocky  islands  of  the  Atlantic  He  went  into  the  church- 
yard, sat  down  on  a  grave-stone,  and  thought.  Now  that  the 
fiction  of  his  own  worth  had  vanished  like  an  image  in  the 
clouds  of  yesterday,  he  was  able  to  see  clearly  into  his  past  life 
and  conduct ;  and  he  could  not  conceal  from  himself  that  his 
behavior  to  Mary  Boxall  might  have  had  something  to  do  with 
the  loss  of  the  whole  family.  He  saw  more  and  more  the  mis- 
chief that  had  come  of  his  own  weakness,  lack  of  courage,  and 
principle.  If  he  could  but  have  defended  his  own  conduct 
where  it  was  blameless,  or  at  least  allowed  it  to  be  open  to  the 
daylight  and  the  anger  of  those  whom  it  might  not  please,  he 
would  thus  have  furnished  his  own  steps  with  a  strong  barrier 
against  sliding  clown  that  slope  down  which  he  had  first  slid- 
den  before  falling  headlong  from  the  precipice  at  its  foot.  In 
self-abasement  he  rose  from  the  grave-stone,  and  walked  slowly 
past  the  house.  Merry  faces  of  children  looked  from  upper 
windows,  who  knew  nothing  of  those  who  had  been  there  be- 
fore them.  Then  he  went  away  westward  toward  Highbury. 
He  would  just  pass  his  father's  door.     There  was  no  fear  of  his 


TJiomas  Returns  to  London.  319 

father  seeing  him  at  this  time  of  the  day,  for  he  would  be  at 
his  office,  and  his  mother  could  not  leave  her  room.  Ah,  his 
mother !  How  had  he  behaved  to  her  ?  A  new  torrent  of 
self-reproach  rushed  over  his  soul  as  he  walked  along  the  downs 
toward  Islington.  Some  day,  if  he  could  only  do  something 
first  to  distinguish  himself  in  any  way,  he  would  go  and  beg 
her  forgiveness.  But  what  chance  was  there  of  his  ever  doing 
any  thing  uoav  ?  He  had  cnt  all  the  ground  of  action  from 
under  his  own  feet.  Not  yet  did  Thomas  see  that  his  duty  was 
to  confess  his  sin,  waiting  for  no  means  of  covering  its  enor- 
mity. He  walked  on.  He  passed  the  door,  casting  but  a  cur- 
sory glance  across  the  windows.  There  was  no  one  to  be  seen. 
He  went  down  the  long  walk  with  the  lime-trees  on  one  side, 
which  he  knew  so  well,  and  just  as  he  reached  the  gates  there 
were  his  sister  Amy  and  Mr.  Simon  coming  from  the  other 
side.  They  were  talking  and  laughing  merrily,  and  looking  in 
each  other's  face.  He  had  never  seen  Mr.  Simon  look  so 
pleasant  before.  He  almost  felt  as  if  he  could  speak  to  him. 
But  no  sooner  did  Mr.  Simon  see  that  this  sailor-looking  fel- 
low was  regarding  them,  than  the  clerical  mask  was  on  his 
face,  and  Thomas  turned  away  with  involuntary  dislike. 

"It  is  clear,"  he  said  to  himself,  "that  they  don't  care 
much  what  is  become  of  me."  He  turned  then,  westward 
again,  toward  Highgate,  and  then  went  over  to  Hampstead, 
paused  at  the  pines,  and  looked  along  the  valley  beneath ; 
then  descended  into  it,  and  went  across  the  heath  till  he  came 
out  on  the  road  by  Wildwood.  This  was  nearly  the  way  he 
had  wandered  on  that  stormy  Christmas  Day  with  Mary  Box- 
all.  He  had  this  day,  almost  without  conscious  choice,  trav- 
ersed the  scenes  of  his  former  folly.  Had  he  not  been  brood- 
ing repentantly  over  his  faults,  I  doubt  if  he  could  have  done 
so,  even  unconsciously.  He  turned  into  the  Bull  and  Bush, 
and  had  some  dinner  ;  then,  as  night  was  falling,  started  for 
London,  having  made  up  his  mind  at  last  what  he  would  do. 
At  the  Bull  and  Bush  he  wrote  a  note  to  Lucy,  to  the  follow- 
ing effect.  He  did  not  dare  to  call  her  by  her  name,  still  less 
to  use  any  term  of  endearment. 

"I  am  not  worthy  to  speak  or  write  your  name,"  he  said  ; 
"but  my  heart  is  dying  to  see  you  once  more.  I  have  like- 
wise to  return  you  your  mother's  ring,  which,  though  it  has 
comforted  me  often  in  my  despair,  I  have  no  longer  any  right 
to  retain.  But  I  should  just  like  to  tell  you  that  I  am  working 
honestly  for  my  bread.  I  am  a  sailor  now.  I  am  qiiite  clear 
of  all  my  bad  companions,  and  hope  to  remain  so.    Dare  I  ask 


320  Guild  Court. 

you  to  meet  me  once — to-morrow  night,  say,  or  any  night 
goon,  for  I  am  not  safe  in  London  ?  I  will  tell  you  all  when  I 
see  you.  Send  me  one  line  by  the  bearer  of  this  to  say  where 
you  will  meet  me.  Do  not,  for  the  sake  of  your  love  to  me 
once,  refuse  me  this.  I  want  to  beg  your  forgiveness,  that  I 
may  go  away  less  miserable  than  I  am.  Then  I  will  go  to  Aus- 
tralia, or  somewhere  out  of  the  country,  and  you  will  never 
hear  of  me  more.     God  bless  you." 

He  cried  a  good  deal  over  this  note.  Then  came  the  ques- 
tion how  he  was  to  send  it.  He  could,  no  doubt,  find  a  mes- 
senger at  the  Mermaid,  but  he  was  very  unwilling  to  make  any 
line  of  communication  between  that  part  of  London  and  Guild. 
Court,  or,  more  properly,  to  connect  himself,  whose  story  was 
there  known,  with  Lucy's  name.  He  would  go  to  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Guild  Court  and  there  look  out  for  a  messenger, 
whom  he  could  then  watch. 


CHAPTEE  XLV. 

THOMAS   IS   CAPTUEED. 

As  soon  as  he  had  resolved  upon  this  he  set  out.  There  was 
plenty  of  time.  He  would  walk.  Tired  as  he  was  beginning 
to  be,  motion  was  his  only  solace.  He  walked  through  Hamp- 
stead,  and  by  Haverstock  Hill,  Tottenham  Court  Road,  and 
Holborn  to  the  City.  By  this  time  the  moon  was  up.  Going 
by  Ludgate  Hill,  he  saw  her  shining  over  St.  Paul's  right 
through  the  spire  of  St.  Martin's,  where  the  little  circle  of 
pillars  lays  it  open  to  the  sky  and  the  wind ;  she  seemed  to 
have  melted  the  spire  in  two.  Then  he  turned  off  to  the  left, 
now  looking  out  for  a  messenger.  In  his  mind  he  chose  and 
rejected  several,  dallying  with  his  own  eagerness,  and  yielding 
to  one  doubt  after  another  about  each  in  succession.  At  last 
he  reached  the  farther  end  of  Bagot  Street.  There  stood  Pop- 
pie  with  her  "murphy-buster."  Had  it  been  daylight,  when 
her  dress  and  growth  would  have  had  due  effect  upon  her  ap- 
pearance, probably  Thomas  would  not  have  known  her ;  but 
seeing  her  face  only  by  the  street-lamp,  he  just  recollected 
that  he  had  seen  the  girl  about  Guild  Court.  He  had  no  sus- 
picion that  she  would  know  him.  But  Poppie  was  as  sharp  as 
a  needle  ;  she  did  know  him. 


Thomas  is  Captured.  321 

"  Do  you  know  Guild  Court,  my  girl  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  believe  you,"  answered  Poppie. 

"Would  you  take  this  letter  for  me,  and  give  it  to  Miss 
Burton,  who  lives  there,  and  wait  for  an  answer  ?  If  she's  not 
at  home,  bring  it  back  to  me.  I  will  take  care  of  your  pota- 
toes, and  give  you  a  shilling  when  you  come  back." 

Whether  Poppie  would  have  accepted  the  office  if  she  had  not 
recognized  Thomas,  I  do  not  know.  She  might,  for  she  had 
so  often  forsaken  her  machine  and  found  it  all  right  when  she 
returned  that  I  think  the  promise  of  the  shilling  would  have 
enabled  her  to  run  the  risk.  As  it  was,  she  scudded.  While 
she  was  gone  he  sold  three  or  four  of  her  potatoes.  He  knew 
how  to  deliver  them  ;  but  he  didn't  know  the  price,  and  just 
took  what  they  gave  him.    He  stood  trembling  with  hope. 

Suddenly  he  was  seized  by  the  arm  from  behind,  and  a  gruff 
voice  he  thought  he  knew,  said  : 

"Here  he  is.  Come  along,  Mr.  Worboise.  You're  want- 
ed." 

Thomas  had  turned  in  great  alarm.  There  were  four  men, 
he  saw,  but  they  were  not  policemen.  That  was  a  comfort. 
Two  of  them  were  little  men.  None  of  them  spoke  but  the 
one  who  seized  him.  He  twisted  his  arm  from  the  man's 
grasp,  and  was  just  throwing  his  fist  at  his  head,  when  he  was 
pinioned  by  two  arms  thrown  round  him  from  behind. 

"Don't  strike,"  said  the  first  man,  "or  it'll  be  the  worse 
for  you.  I'll  call  the  police.  Come  along,  and  I  swear  noth- 
ing but  good  will  come  of  it — to  you  as  well  as  to  other  peo- 
ple. I'm  not  the  man  to  get  you  into  trouble,  I  can  tell  you. 
Don't  you  know  me  ? — Kitely,  the  bookseller.  Come  along. 
I've  been  in  a  fix  myself  before  now." 

Thomas  yielded,  and  they  led  him  away. 

"  But  there's  that  child's  potatoes  !"  he  said.  "  The  whole 
affair  will  be  stolen.     Just  wait  till  she  comes  back." 

"  Oh  !  she's  all  right,"  said  Kitely.  "  There  she  is,  butter- 
ing a  ha'p'orth.     Come  along." 

They  led  him  through  streets  and  lanes,  every  one  of  which 
Thomas  knew  better  than  his  catechism  a  good  deal.  All  at 
once  they  hustled  him  in  at  a  church  door.  In  the  vestibule 
Thomas  saw  that  there  were  but  two  with  him — Mr.  Kitely, 
whom  he  now  recognized,  and  a  little  man  with  his  hair  stand- 
ing erect  over  his  ])ale  face,  like  corn  on  the  top  of  a  chalk- 
cliff.  Him  too  he  recognized,  for  Mr.  Spelt  had  done  many 
repairs  for  him.  The  other  two  had  disappeared.  Neither 
Mr.  Salter  nor  Mr.  Dolman  cared  to  tempt  Providence  by 
21 


322  Guild  Court. 

coming  farther.  It  was  Jim  who  had  secured  his  arms,  and 
saved  Kitely's  head.  Mr.  Kitely  made  way  for  Thomas  to  en- 
ter first.  Fearful  of  any  commotion,  he  yielded  still,  and  went 
into  a  pew  near  the  door.  The  two  men  followed  him.  It  is 
time  I  should  account  for  the  whole  of  this  strange  proceed- 
ing. 

Jim  Salter  did  not  fail  to  revisit  the  Mermaid  on  the  day  of 
Tom's  departure,  but  he  was  rather  late,  and  Tom  was  gone. 
As  to  what  had  become  of  him,  Mr.  Potts  thought  it  more 
prudent  to  profess  ignorance.  He  likewise  took  another  j>ro- 
cedure  upon  him,  which,  although  well-meant,  was  not  honest. 
Eegardless  of  Thomas's  desire  that  Jim  should  have  a  half- 
sovereign  for  the  trouble  of  the  preceding  day,  Mr.  Potts, 
weighing  the  value  of  Jim's  time,  and  the  obligation  he  was 
himself  under  to  Tom,  resolved  to  take  Tom's  interests  in  his 
own  hands,  and  therefore  very  solemnly  handed  a  half-crown 
and  a  florin,  as  what  Thomas  had  left  for  him,  across  the 
counter  to  Jim.  Jim  took  the  amount  in  severe  dudgeon. 
The  odd  sixpence  was  especially  obnoxious.  It  was  grievous 
to  his  soul. 

"  Four  and  sixpence  !  Four  bob  and  one  tanner,"  said 
Jim,  in  a  tone  of  injury,  in  which  there  certainly  was  no  pre- 
tense— "after  a-riskin'  of  my  life,  not  to  mention  a-wastin'  of 
my  precious  time  for  the  ungrateful  young  snob.  Four  and 
sixpence  ! " 

Mr.  Potts  told  him  with  equal  solemnity,  a  righteous  indig- 
nation looking  over  the  top  of  his  red  nose,  to  hold  his  jaw,  or 
go  out  of  his  tavern.  Whereupon  Jim  gave  a  final  snuff,  and 
was  silent,  for  where  there  was  so  much  liquor  on  the  premises 
it  was  prudent  not  to  anger  the  Mermaid's  master.  There- 
upon the  said  master,  probably  to  ease  his  own  conscience  Jim- 
ward,  handed  him  a  glass  of  old  Tom,  which  Jim,  not  with- 
out suspicion  of  false  play,  emptied  and  deposited.  From  that 
day,  although  he  continued  to  call  occasionally  at  the  Mermaid, 
he  lost  all  interest  in  his  late  client,  never  referred  to  him,  and 
always  talked  of  Bessy  Potts  as  if  he  himself  had  taken  her 
out  of  the  water. 

The  acquaintance  between  Dolman  and  him  began  about 
this  time  to  grow  a  little  more  intimate;  and  after  the  meeting 
which  I  have  described  above,  they  met  pretty  frequently, 
when  Mr.  Dolman  communicated  to  him  such  little  facts  as 
transpired  about  "them  lawyers,"  namely,  Mr.  Worboise's 
proceedings.  Among  the  rest  was  the  suspicious  disappear- 
ance of  the  son,  whom  Mr.  Dolman  knew,  not  to  speak  to, 


Tliomas  is  Captured.  323 

but  by  sight,  as  well  as  his  own  lap-stone.  Mr.  Salter,  already 
suspicious  of  his  man,  requested  a  description  of  the  missing 
youth,  and  concluded  that  it  was  the  same  in  whom  he  had 
been  so  grievously  disappointed,  for  the  odd  sixpence  repre- 
sented any  conceivable  amount  of  meanness,  not  to  say  wicked- 
ness. This  increased  intimacy  with  Jim  did  Dolman  no  good, 
and  although  he  would  not  yet  forsake  his  work  during  work- 
hours,  he  would  occasionally  permit  Jim  to  fetch  a  jug  of 
beer  from  a  neighboring  tavern,  and  consume  it  with  him  in 
his  shop.  On  these  occasions  they  had  to  use  great  circumspec- 
tion with  regard  to  Dolly's  landlord,  who  sat  over  his  head. 
But  in  the  winter  nights,  Mr.  Spelt  would  put  up  the  outside 
shutter  over  his  window  to  keep  the  cold  out,  only  occasionally 
opening  his  door  to  let  a  little  air  in.  This  made  it  possible  to 
get  the  beer  introduced  below  without  discovery,  when  Dolman, 
snail-like,  closed  the  mouth  of  his  shell  also,  in  which  there 
was  barely  room  for  two,  and  stitched  away  while  Jim  did  the 
chief  part  of  the  drinking  and  talking — in  an  under-tone — for 
him — not  so  low,  however,  but  that  Spelt  could  hear  not  a 
little  that  set  him  thinking.  It  was  pretty  clear  that  young 
Worboise  was  afraid  to  show  himself,  and  this  and  other  points 
he  communicated  to  his  friend  Kitely.  This  same  evening 
they  were  together  thus  when  they  heard  a  hurried  step  come 
up  and  stop  before  the  window,  and  the  voice  of  Mr.  Kitely, 
well  known  to  Dolman,  call  to  the  tailor  overhead. 

"Spelt,  I  say.     Spelt!" 

Mr.  Spelt  looked  out  at  his  door. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Kitely.     What's  the  matter  ?  " 

"Here's  that  young  devil's  lamb,  Worboise,. been  and  sent  a 
letter  to  Miss  Burton  by  your  Poppie,  and  he's  a-waitin'  an 
answer.     Come  along,  and  we'll  take  him  alive." 

"  But  what  do  you  want  to  do  with  him  ?  "  asked  Spelt. 

"  Take  him  to  Mr.  Fuller." 

"But  what  if  he  won't  come  ?" 

"  We  can  threaten  him  with  the  police,  as  if  we  knew  all 
about  it.     Come  along,  there's  no  time  to  be  lost." 

"But  what  would  you  take  him  to  Mr.  Fuller  for  ?" 

My  reader  may  well  be  inclined  to  ask  the  same  question.  I 
will  explain.  Mr.  Kitely  was  an  oi'iginal  man  in  thinking, 
and  a  rarely  practical  man  in  following  it  up,  for  he  had  con- 
fidence in  his  own  conclusions.  Ever  since  he  had  made  the 
acquaintance  of  Mr.  Fuller,  through  Mattie's  illness,  he  had 
been  feeling  his  influence  more  and  more,  and  was  gradually 
reforming  his  ways  in  many  little  things  that  no  one  knew  of 


324  Guild  Court. 

but  himself.  No  one  in  London  knew  him  as  any  thing  but 
an  honest  man,  but  I  presume  there  are  few  men  so  honest 
that  if  they  were  to  set  about  it  seriously,  they  could  not  be 
honestcr  still.  I  suspect  that  the  most  honest  man  of  my 
acquaintance  will  be  the  readiest  to  acknowledge  this ;  for 
honesty  has  wonderful  offshoots  from  its  great  tap-root.  Hav- 
ing this  experience  in  himself,  he  had  faith  in  the  moral  power 
of  Mr.  Fuller.  Again,  since  Lucy  had  come  to  live  in  the 
house,  he  had  grown  to  admire  her  yet  more,  and  the  attention 
and  kindness  she  continued  to  show  to  his  princess,  caused  an 
equal  growth  in  his  gratitude.  Hence  it  became  more  and 
more  monstrous  in  his  eyes  that  she  should  be  deprived  of  her 
rights  in  such  a  villainous  manner  by  the  wickedness  of  "them 
Worboises."  For  the  elder,  he  was  afraid  that  he  was  beyond 
redemption  ;  but  if  he  could  get  hold  of  the  younger,  and  put 
him  under  Mr.  Fuller's  pump,  for  that  was  how  he  represented 
the  possible  process  of  cleansing  to  himself,  something  might 
come  of  it.  He  did  not  know  that  Thomas  was  entirely  ignor- 
ant of  his  father's  relation  to  the  property  of  the  late  Richard 
Boxall,  and  that  no  man  in  London  would  have  less  influence 
with  Worboise,  senior,  than  Worboise,  junior.  He  had  had 
several  communications  with  Mr.  Fiiller  on  the  subject,  and  had 
told  him  all  he  knew.  Mr.  Fuller  likewise  had  made  out  that 
this  must  be  the  same  young  man  of  whom  Lucy  had  spoken  in 
such  trouble.  But  as  he  had  disappeared,  nothing  could  be 
done — even  if  he  had  had  the  same  hope  of  good  results  from 
the  interview  as  Mr.  Kitely,  whose .  simplicity  and  eagerness 
amused  as  well  as  pleased  him.  "When  Mr.  Kitely,  therefore, 
received  from  Poppie  Thomas's  letter  to  give  to  Lucy,  who 
happened  to  be  out,  he  sped  at  once,  with  his  natural  prompti- 
tude, to  secure  Mr.  Spelt's  assistance  in  carrying  out  his  con- 
spiracy against  Thomas. 

As  soon  as  the  two  below  heard  Mr.  Spelt  scramble  down 
and  depart  with  Mr.  Kitely,  they  issued  from  their  station  ; 
Mr.  Dolman  anxious  to  assist  in  the  capture,  Mr.  Salter  wish- 
ing to  enjoy  his  disgrace,  for  the  odd  sixpence  rankled.  As 
soon  as  they  saw  him  within  the  inner  door  of  the  church  they 
turned  and  departed.  They  knew  nothing  about  churches, 
and  were  unwilling  to  enter.  They  did  not  know  what  they 
might  be  in  for,  if  they  went  in.  Neither  had  they  any  idea 
for  what  object  Thomas  was  taken  there. .  Dolman  went  away 
with  some  vague  notion  about  the  Ecclesiastical  Court ;  for  he 
tried  to  read  the  papers  sometimes.  This  notion  he  imparted 
with  equal  vagueness  to  the  brain  of  Jim  Salter,  already  mud- 


The  Confession.  325 

died  with  the  beer  he  had  drunk.  Dolman  went  back  to  his 
work,  hoping  to  hear  about  it  when  Spelt  came  home.  Jim 
wandered  eastward  to  convey  a  somewhat  incorrect  idea  of 
what  had  happened  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  Mermaid.  Hav- 
ing his  usual  design  on  the  Mermaid's  resources,  his  story  lost 
nothing  in  the  telling,  and,  in  great  perplexity,  and  greater 
uneasiness,  Captain  Smith  and  Mr.  Potts  started  to  find  out 
the  truth  of  the  matter.  Jim  conducted  them  to  the  church 
door,  which  was  still  open,  and  retired  round  the  corner. 

Meantime  the  captors  and  the  culprit  waited  till  the  service 
was  over.  As  soon  as  Mr.  Fuller  had  retired  to  the  vestry, 
and  the  congregation  had  dispersed,  Mr.  Kitely  intimated  to 
Thomas  that  he  must  follow  him,  and  led  the  way  up  the 
church.  With  the  fear  of  the  police  still  before  his  eyes, 
Thomas  did  follow,  and  the  little  tailor  brought  up  the  rear. 
Hardly  waiting,  in  his  impatience,  to  knock  at  the  door,  Mr. 
Kitely  popped  his  head  in  as  Mr.  Fuller  was  standing  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  and  said  with  ill-supjoressed  triumph  : 

"  Here  he  is,  sir  !     I've  got  him  ! " 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Mr.  Fuller,  arrested  by  sur- 
prise with  one  arm  in  his  coat  and  the  other  hand  searching-/* 
for  the  other  sleeve. 

"Young  Worboise.  The  lawyer-chap,  you  know  sir,"  he 
added,  seeing  that  the  name  conveyed  no  idea. 

"  Oh  !  said  Mr.  Fuller,  prolongedly.  "  Show  him  in,  then." 
And  on  went  his  coat. 

Thomas  entered,  staring  in  bewilderment.  Nor  was  Mr.  Ful- 
ler quite  at  his  ease  at  first,  when  the  handsome,  brown  sailor- 
lad  stepped  into  the  vestry.  But  he  shook  hands  with  him, 
and  asked  him  to  take  a  chair.  Thomas  obeyed.  Seeing  his 
conductors  lingered,  Mr.  Fuller  then  said  : 

"You  must  leave  us  alone  now,  Mr.  Kitely.  How  do  you 
do,  Mr.  Spelt?" 

They  retired,  and,  after  a  short  consultation  together  in  the 
church,  agreed  that  they  had  done  their  part  and  could  do  no 
more,  and  went  home. 


CHAPTER  XL VI. 

THE     CONFESSION". 

As  soon  as  the  door  closed  behind  them,  Mr.  Fuller  turned 
to  Tom,  saying,  as  he  took  a  chair  near  him,  "  I'm  very  glad 


326  Guild  Court. 

to  see  you,  Mr.  Worboise.  I  have  long  wanted  to  have  a  little 
talk  with  you.*' 

"  Will  you  tell  me,"  said  Tom,  with  considerable  uneasiness, 
notwithstanding  the  pacific  appearance  of  everything  about 
him,  "  why  those  people  have  made  me  come  to  you  ?  I  was 
afraid  of  making  a  row  in  the  street,  and  so  I  thought  it  better 
to  give  in.     But  I  have  not  an  idea  why  I  am  here." 

Mr.  Fuller  thought  there  must  be  some  farther  reason,  else 
a  young  man  of  Thomas's  appearance  would  not  have  so  quietly 
yielded  to  the  will  of  two  men  like  Kitely  and  Spelt.  But  he 
kept  this  conclusion  to  himself. 

"It  certainly  was  a  most  unwarrantable  proceeding  if  they 
used  any  compulsion.  But  I  have  no  intention  of  using  any — 
nor  should  I  have  much  chance,"  he  added,  laughing,  "if  it 
came  to  a  tussle  with  a  young  fellow  like  you,  Mr.  Worboise." 

This  answer  restored  Tom  to  his  equanimity  a  little. 

"Perhaps  you  know  my  father,"  he  said,  finding  that  Mr. 
Fuller  was  silent.  In  fact,  Mr.  Fuller  was  quite  puzzled  how 
to  proceed.  He  cared  little  for  the  business  part,  and  for  the 
other,  he  must  not  compromise  Lucy.  Clearly  the  lawyer- 
business  was  the  only  beginning.  And  this  question  of  Tom's 
helped  him  to  it. 

"I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  knowing  your  father.  I  wish  I 
had.  But,  after  all,  it  is  better  I  should  have  a  chat  with  you 
first." 

"  Most  willingly,"  said  Tom,  with  courtesy. 

"  It  is  a  very  unconventional  thing  I  am  about  to  do.  But 
very  likely  you  will  give  me  such  information  as  Avill  enable  me 
to  set  the  minds  of  some  of  my  friends  at  rest.  I  am  perfectly 
aware  what  a  lame  introduction  this  is,  and  I  must  make  a 
foolish  figure  indeed,  except  you  will  kindly  understand  that 
sometimes  a  clergyman  is  compelled  to  meddle  with  matters 
which  he  would  gladly  leave  alone." 

"I  have  too  much  need  of  forbearance  myself  not  to  grant 
it,  sir — although  I  do  not  believe  any  will  be  necessary  in  your 
case.     Pray  make  me  understand  you." 

Mr.  Fuller  was  greatly  pleased  with  this  answer,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  business  at  once. 

"  I  am  told  by  a  man  who  is  greatly  interested  in  one  of  the 
parties  concerned,  that  a  certain  near  relative  of  yours  is  in 
possession  of  a  large  property  which  ought  by  right,  if  not  by 
law,  to  belong  to  an  old  lady  who  is  otherwise  destitute.  I 
wish  to  employ  your  mediation  to  procure  a  settlement  upon 
her  of  such  small  portion  of  the  property  at  least  as  will  make 


The  Confession.  327 

her  independent.  I  am  certainly  explicit  enough  now,"  con- 
cluded Mr.  Fuller,  with  a  considerable  feeling  of  relief  in  hav- 
ing discharged  himself,  if  not  of  his  duty,  yet  of  so  creditable 
a  beginning  of  it. 

"I  am  as  much  in  the  dark  as  ever,  sir,"  returned  Thomas. 
"I  know  nothing  of  what  you  refer  to.  If  you  mean  my 
father,  I  am  the  last  one  to  know  anything  of  his  affairs.  I 
have  not  seen  him  or  heard  of  him  for  months." 

"  But  you  cannot  surely  be  ignorant  of  the  case.  It  has 
been  reported  in  the  public  prints  from  time  to  time.  It 
seems  that  your  father  has  come  in  for  the  contingent  rever- 
sion— I  think  that  is  the  phrase,  I'm  not  sure — of  all  the 
property  of  the  late  Richard  Boxall — " 

"By  Jove  !"  cried  Thomas,  starting  to  his  feet  in  a  rage, 
then  sinking  back  on  his  chair  in  conscious  helplessness. 
"  He  did  make  his  will,"  he  muttered. 

"Leaving,"  Mr.  Fuller  went  on,  "the  testator's  mother  and 
his  niece  utterly  unprovided  for." 

"But  she  had  money  of  her  own  in  the  business.  I  have 
heard  her  say  so  a  thousand  times." 

"  She  has  nothing  now." 

"  My  father  is  a  villain  ! "  cried  Thomas,  starting  once  more 
to  his  feet,  and  pacing  up  and  down  in  the  little  vestry  like  a 
wild  beast  in  a  cage.  "And  what  am  If"  he  added,  after  a 
pause.  "I  have  brought  all  this  upon  her."  He  could  say 
no  more.    .He  sat  down,  hid  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  sobbed. 

Thomas  was  so  far  mistaken  in  this,  that  his  father,  after 
things  had  gone  so  far  as  they  had,  would  have  done  as  he  had 
done,  whatever  had  been  Thomas's  relations  to  the  lady.  But 
certainly,  if  he  had  behaved  as  he  ought,  things  could  not 
have  gone  thus  far.     He  was  the  cause  of  all  the  trouble. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  to  Mr.  Fuller's  mind. 

"As  to  Miss  Burton,"  he  said,  " I  happen  to  know  that  she 
has  another  grief,  much  too  great  to  allow  her  to  think  about 
money.  A  clergyman,  you  know,  comes  to  hear  of  many 
things.  She  never  told  me  who  he  was,"  said  Mr.  Fuller,  with 
hesitation ;  "  but  she  confessed  to  me  that  she  was  in  great 
trouble." 

"Oh,  sir,  what  shall  I  do?"  cried  Thomas;  "I  love  her 
with  all  my  heart,  but  I  can  never,  never  dare  to  think  of  her 
more.  I  came  up  to  London  at  the  risk  of — of —  I  came  up 
to  London  only  to  see  her  and  give  her  back  this  ring,  and  beg 
her  to  forgive  me,  and  go  away  forever.  And  now  I  have  not 
only  given  her  pain — " 


328  Guild  Court 

"Pain! "said  Mr.  Fuller.  "If  she  weren't  so  good,  her 
heart  would  hare  broken  before  now." 

Thomas  burst  out  sobbing  again.  He  turned  his  face  away 
from  Mr.  Fuller  and  stood  by  the  wall,  shaken  with  misery. 
Mr.  Fuller  left  him  alone  for  a  minute  or  two.  Then,  going 
up  to  him,  he  put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  kindly,  and  said  : 

"  My  dear  boy,  I  suspect  you  have  got  into  some  terrible 
scrape,  or  you  would  not  have  disappeared  as  they  tell  me. 
And  your  behavior  seems  to  confirm  the  suspicion.  Tell  me 
all  about  it,  and  I  have  very  little  doubt  that  I  can  help  you 
out  of  it.     But  you  must  tell  me  everything." 

"  I  will,  sir  ;  I  will,"  Tom  sobbed. 

"  Mind,  no  half-confessions.  I  have  no  right  to  ask  you  to 
confess  but  on  the  ground  of  helping  you.  But  if  I  am  to 
help  you,  I  must  know  all.  Can  I  trust  you  that  you  will  be 
quite  straightforward  and  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  ?  " 

Tom  turned  round,  and  looked  Mr.  Fuller  calmly  in  the 
face.  The  light  of  hope  shone  in  his  eyes  :  the  very  offer  of 
hearing  all  his  sin  and  misery  gave  him  hope.  To  tell  it, 
would  be  to  get  rid  of  some  of  the  wretchedness. 

"I  hate  myself  so,  sir,"  he  said,  "  that  I  do  not  feel  it  worth 
while  to  hide  anything.  I  will  speak  the  truth.  When  you 
wish  to  know  more  than  I  tell,  ask  me  any  questions  you 
please,  and  I  will  answer  them." 

At  this  moment  a  tap  was  heard  at  the  vestry  door,  and  it 
opened,  revealing  two  strange  figures  with  scared,  interro- 
gating faces  on  the  top — the  burly  form  of  Captain  Smith, 
and  the  almost  as  bulky,  though  differently  arranged,  form  of 
Mr.  Potts. 

"Don't'ee  be  too  hard  on  the  young  gentleman,  sir,"  said 
Mr.  Potts,  in  the  soothing  tone  of  one  who  would  patch  up  a 
family  quarrel.  "  He  won't  do  it  again,  I'll  go  bail.  You 
don't  know,  sir,  what  a  good  sort  he  is.  Don't'ee  get  him  into 
no  trouble.  He  lost  his  life — all  but — a  reskewing  of  my 
Bessie.  He  did  now.  True  as  the  Bible,  sir,"  added  Mr. 
Potts,  with  conciliatory  flattery  to  the  clergyman's  profession, 
whom  they  both  took  for  the  father  or  uncle  of  Thomas. 

"You  just  let  me  take  him  off  again,  sir,"  put  in  Captain 
Smith,  while  the  face  of  Mr.  Potts,  having  recovered  its  usual 
complexion,  looked  on  approvingly  like  a  comic  but  benevolent 
moon. 

Mr.  Fuller  had  a  wise  way  of  never  interrupting  till  he  saw 
in  what  direction  the  sense  lay.  So  he  let  them  talk,  and  the 
seaman  went  on : 


,  The  Confession.  329 

"  Everybody  knows  the  sea's  the  place  for  curing  the  likes 
o'  them  fine  fellows  that  carries  too  much  sail  ashore.  They 
soon  learns  their  reef-points  there.  Why,  parson,  sir,  he's 
been  but  three  or  four  voyages,  and  I'll  take  him  for  an  able- 
bodied  seaman  to-morrow.  He's  a  right  good  sort,  though  he 
may  ha'  been  a  little  frolicsome  on  shore.  We  was  all  young 
once,  sir." 

"Are  these  men  friends  of  yours,  Mr.  Worboise  ?"  asked 
Mr.  Fuller. 

"Indeed  they  are,"  answered  Thomas.  "I  think  I  must 
have  killed  myself  before  now,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  those  two." 

So  saying,  he  shook  hands  with  Mr.  Potts,  and,  turning  to 
the  captain,  said : 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,  captain,  but  I  am  quite  safe  with 
this  gentleman.     I  will  come  and  see  you  to-morrow." 

"  He  shall  sleep  at  my  house  to-night,"  said  Mr.  Fuller ; 
"and  no  harm  shall  happen  to  him,  I  promise  you." 

"Thank  you,  sir;"  and  "Good-night,  gentlemen,"  said 
both,  and  went  through  the  silent,  wide  church  with  a  kind  of 
awe  that  rarely  visited  either  of  them. 

Without  further  preface  than  just  the  words,  "  Now,  I  will 
tell  you  all  about  it,  sir,"  Thomas  began  his  story.  When  he 
had  finished  it,  having  answered  the  few  questions  he  put  to 
him  in  its  course,  Mr.  Fuller  was  satisfied  that  he  did  know  all 
about  it,  and  that  if  ever  there  was  a  case  in  which  he  ought 
to  give  all  the  help  he  could,  here  was  one.  He  did  not  utter 
a  word  of  reproof.  Thomas's  condition  of  mind  was  such  that 
it  was  not  only  unnecessary,  but  might  have  done  harm.  He 
had  now  only  to  be  met  with  the  same  simplicity  which  he  had 
himself  shown.     The  help  must  match  the  confession. 

"  Well,  we  must  get  you  out  of  this  scrape,  somehow,"  he 
said,  heartily. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can,  sir." 

"It  rests  with  yourself  chiefly.  Another  can  only  help. 
The  feet  that  walked  into  the  mire  must  turn  and  walk  out  of 
it  again.  I  don't  mean  to  reproach  you — only  to  encourage 
you  to  effort." 

"What  effort?"  said  Tom.  "I  have  scarcely  heart  for 
anything.  I  have  disgraced  myself  forever.  Suppose  all  the 
consequences  of  my — doing  as  I  did  " — he  could  not  yet  call 
the  deed  by  its  name — "were  to  disappear,  I  have  a  blot  upon 
me  to  all  eternity,  that  nothing  can  wash  out.  For  there  is 
the  fact.     I  almost  think  it  is  not  worth  while  to  do  anything." 

"  You  are  altogether  wrong  about  that,"  returned  Mr.  Fuller. 


330  Guild  Court. 

"  It  is  true  that  the  deed  is  done,  and  that  that  cannot  be 
obliterated.  But  a  living  soul  may  outgrow  all  stain  and  all 
reproach — I  do  not  mean  in  the  judgment  of  men  merely,  but 
in  the  judgment  of  God,  which  is  always  founded  on  the 
actual  fact,  and  always  calls  things  by  their  right  names,  and 
covers  no  man's  sin,  although  he  forgives  it  and  takes  it  away. 
A  man  may  abjure  his  sin  so,  cast  it  away  from  him  so  utterly, 
with  pure  heart  and  full  intent,  that,  although  he  did  it,  it  is 
his  no  longer.  But,  Thomas  Worboise,  if  the  stain  of  it  were 
to  cleave  to  you  to  all  eternity,  that  would  be  infinitely  better 
than  that  you  should  have  continued  capable  of  doing  the 
thing.  You  are  more  honorable  now  than  you  were  before. 
Then  you  were  capable  of  the  crime  ;  now,  I  trust,  you  are  not. 
It  was  far  better  that,  seeing  your  character  was  such  that  you 
could  do  it,  you  should  thus  be  humbled  by  disgracing  your- 
self, than  that  you  should  have  gone  on  holding  up  a  proud 
head  in  the  world,  with  such  a  deceitful  hollow  of  weakness  in 
your  heart.  It  is  the  kindest  thing  God  can  do  for  his  chil- 
dren, sometimes,  to  let  them  fall  in  the  mire.  You  would  not 
hold  by  your  Father's  hand ;  you  struggled  to  pull  it  away ; 
he  let  it  go,  and  there  you  lay.  Now  that  you  stretch  forth 
the  hand  to  him  again,  he  will  take  you,  and  clean,  not  your 
garments  only,  but  your  heart,  and  soul,  and  consciousness. 
Pray  to  your  Father,  my  boy.  He  will  change  your  humilia- 
tion into  humility,  your  shame  into  purity." 

"  Oh,  if  he  were  called  anything  else  than  Father  I  I  am 
afraid  I  hate  my  father." 

"  I  don't  wonder.     But  that  is  your  own  fault,  too." 

".  How  is  that,  sir  ?  Surely  you  are  making  even  me  out 
worse  than  I  am." 

"No.  You  are  afraid  of  him.  As  soon  as  you  have  ceased 
to  be  afraid  of  him,  you  will  no  longer  be  in  danger  of  hating 
him." 

"  I  can't  help  being  afraid  of  him." 

"  You  must  break  the  bonds  of  that  slavery.  No  slave  can 
be  God's  servant.  His  servants  are  all  free  men.  But  we  will 
come  to  that  presently.  You  must  not  try  to  call  God  your 
Father,  till  father  means  something  very  different  to  you  from 
what  it  seems  to  mean  now.  Think  of  the  grandest  human 
being  you  can  imagine — the  tenderest,  the  most  gracious, 
whose  severity  is  boundless,  but  hurts  himself  most — all  against 
evil,  all  for  the  evil-doer.  God  is  all  that,  and  infinitely  more. 
You  need  not  call  him  by  any  name  till  the  name  bursts  from 
your  heart.     God  our  Saviour  means  all  the  names  in  the 


The  Confession.  331 

world,  and  infinitely  more  !  One  thing  I  can  assure  you  of, 
that  even  I,  if  you  will  but  do  your  duty  in  regard  to  this 
thing,  will  not  only  love — yes,  I  will  say  that  word — will  not 
only  love,  but  honor  you  far  more  than  if  I  had  known  you 
only  as  a  respectable  youth.  It  is  harder  to  turn  back  than  to 
keep  at  home.  I  doubt  if  there  could  be  such  joy  in  heaven 
over  the  repenting  sinner  if  he  was  never  to  be  free  of  his 
disgrace.  But  I  like  you  the  better  for  having  the  feeling  of 
eternal  disgrace  now." 

"  I  will  think  God  is  like  you,  sir.    Tell  me  what  I  am  to  do." 

"  I  am  going  to  set  you  the  hardest  of  tasks,  one  after  the 
other.  They  will  be  like  the  pinch  of  death.  But  they  must 
be  done.  And  after  that — peace.  Who  is  at  the  head  of  the 
late  Mr.  Boxall's  business  now  ?  " 

"I  suppose  Mr.  Stopper.     He  was  head-clerk." 

"You  must  go  to  him  and  take  him  the  money  you  stole." 

Thomas  turned  ashy  pale. 

"I  haven't  got  it,  sir." 

1 '  How  much  was  it,  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  Eleven  pounds — nearly  twelve." 

"  I  will  find  you  the  money.     I  will  lend  it  to  you." 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,  sir.  I  will  not  spend  a  penny  I 
can  help  till  I  repay  you.     But — " 

"Yes,  now  come  the  huts,"  said  Mr.  Fuller,  with  a  smile  of 
kindness.     "  What  is  the  first  hut  ?  " 

"  Stopper  is  a  hard  man,  and  never  liked  me.  He  will  give 
i  me  up  to  the  law. " 

"I  can't  help  it.  It  must  be  done.  But  I  do  not  believe  he 
I  will  do  that.  I  will  help  you  so  far  as  to  promise  you  to  do  all 
that  lies  in  my  power  in  every  way  to  prevent  it.  And  there 
is  your  father  ;  his  word  will  be  law  with  him  now." 

"  So  much  the  worse,  sir.  He  is  ten  times  as  hard  as  Stop- 
per." 

"  He  will  not  be  willing  to  disgrace  his  own  family,  though." 

"  I  know  what  he  will  do.  He  will  make  it  a  condition  that 
I  shall  give  up  Lucy.  But  I  will  go  to  prison  before  I  will  do 
that.  Not  that  it  will  make  any  difference  in  the  end,  for 
Lucy  won't  have  a  word  to  say  to  me  now.  She  bore  all  that 
woman  could  bear.  But  she  shall  give  me  up — she  has  given 
me  up,  of  course  ;  but  I  will  never  give  her  up  that  way." 

"  That's  right,  my  boy.     Well,  what  do  you  say  to  it  ?  " 

Tom  was  struggling  with  himself.  With  a  sudden  resolve, 
the  source  of  which  he  coiild  not  tell,  he  said,  "  I  will,  sir." 
With  a  new  light  in  his  face  he  added,  "  What  next  ?  " 


332  Guild  Court. 

"  Then  you  must  go  to  your  father." 

"That  is  far  worse.     I  am  afraid  I  can't." 

"  You  must — if  you  should  not  find  a  word  to  say  when 
you  go — if  you  should  fall  in  a  faint  on  the  floor  when  you 
try." 

"  I  will,  sir.     Am  I  to  tell  him  everything  ?" 

"  I  am  not  prepared  to  say  that.  If  he  had  been  a  true 
father  to  you,  I  should  have  said  '  Of  course.'  But  there  is  no 
denying  the  fact  that  such  he  has  not  been,  or  rather,  that 
such  he  is  not.  The  point  lies  there.  I  think  that  alters  the 
affair.  It  is  one  thing  to  confess  to  God  and  another  to  the 
deyil.     Excuse  me,  I  only  put  the  extremes." 

"What  ought  I  to  tell  him,  then  ?" 

"  I  think  you  will  know  that  best  when  you  see  him.  "We 
cannot  tell  how  much  he  knows." 

"Yes,"  said  Thomas,  thoughtfully;  "I  will  tell  him  that  I 
am  sorry  I  went  away  as  I  did,  and  ask  him  to  forgive  me. 
Will  that  do?" 

"I  must  leave  all  that  to  your  own  conscience,  heart,  and 
honesty.  Of  course,  if  he  receives  you  at  all,  you  must  try 
what  you  can  do  for  Mrs.  Boxall." 

"Alas  ! .  I  know  too  well  how  useless  that  will  be.  It  will 
only  enrage  him  the  more  at  them.  He  may  offer  to  put  it  all 
right,  though,  if  I  promise  to  give  Lucy  up.  Must  I  do  that, 
sir?" 

Knowing  more  about  Lucy's  feelings  than  Thomas,  Mr. 
Fuller  answered  at  once — though  if  he  had  hesitated,  he  might 
have  discovered  ground  for  hesitating — 

"On  no  account  whatever." 

"And  what  must  I  do  next  ?"  he  asked,  more  cheerfully. 

" There's  your  mother." 

"Ah  !  you  needn't  remind  me  of  her." 

"  Then  you  must  not  forget  Miss  Burton.  You  have  some 
apology  to  make  to  her  too,  I  suppose." 

"  I  had  just  sent  her  a  note,  asking  her  to  meet  me  once 
more,  and  was  waiting  for  her  answer,  when  the  bookseller 
laid  hold  of  me.  I  was  so  afraid  of  making  a  row,  lest  the 
police  should  come,  that  I  gave  in  to  him.  I  owe  him  more 
than  ever  I  can  repay." 

"  You  will  when  you  have  done  all  you  have  undertaken." 

"  But  how  am  I  to  see  Lucy  now  ?  She  will  not  know 
where  I  am.     But  perhaps  she  will  not  want  to  see  me." 

Here  Tom  looked  very  miserable  again.  Anxious  to  give 
him  courage,  Mr.  Fuller  said  : 


Thomas  and  Mr.  Stopper.  333 

"  Come  home  with  me  now.  In  the  morning,  after  you 
have  seen  Mr.  Stopper,  and  your  father  and  mother,  come 
back  to  my  house.     I  am  sure  she  will  see  you." 

With  more  thanks  in  his  heart  than  on  his  tongue,  Tom 
followed  Mr.  Fuller  from  the  church.  When  they  stepped 
into  the  street,  they  found  the  bookseller,  the  seaman,  and  the 
publican,  talking  together  on  the  pavement. 

"  It's  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Fuller,  as  he  passed  them.  "  Good- 
night." Then,  turning  again  to  Mr.  Kitely,  he  added,  in  a 
low  voice,  "  He  knows  nothing  of  his  father's  behavior,  Kitely. 
You'll  be  glad  to  hear  that." 

"  I  ought  to  be  glad  to  hear  it  for  his  own  sake,  I  suppose," 
returned  the  bookseller.  "But  I  don't  know  as  I  am,  for  all 
that." 

"  Have  patience,  have  patience,"  said  the  parson,  and  walked 
on,  taking  Thomas  by  the  arm. 

For  the  rest  of  the  evening  Mr.  Fuller  avoided  much  talk 
with  the  penitent,  and  sent  him  to  bed  early. 


CHAPTER  XLVIL 

THOMAS  AND   MR.  STOPPER. 

Thomas  did  not  sleep  much  that  night,  and  was  up  betimes 
in  the  morning.  Mr.  Fuller  had  risen  before  him,  however, 
and  when  Thomas  went  down  stairs,  after  an  invigorating  cold 
bath  which  his  host  had  taken  special  care  should  be  provided 
for  him,  along  with  clean  linen,  he  found  him  in  his  study 
reading.  He  received  him  very  heartily,  looking  him,  with 
some  anxiety,  in  the  face,  as  if  to  see  whether  he  could  read 
action  there.  Apparently  he  was  encouraged,  for  his  own  face 
brightened  up,  and  they  were  soon  talking  together  earnestly. 
But  knowing  Mr.  Stopper's  habit  of  being  first  at  the  counting- 
house,  Thomas  was  anxious  about  the  time,  and  Mr.  Fuller 
hastened  breakfast.  That  and  prayers  over,  he  put  twelve 
pounds  into  Thomas's  hand,  which  he  had  been  out  that 
morning  already  to  borrow  from  a  friend.  Then,  with  a  quak- 
ing heart,  but  determined  will,  Thomas  set  out  and  walked 
straight  to  Bagot  Street.  Finding  no  one  there  but  the  man 
sweeping  out  the  place,  he  went  a  little  farther,  and  there  was 


334  Guild  Court. 

the  bookseller  arranging  his  stall  outside  the  window.  Mr. 
Kitely  regarded  him  with  doubtful  eyes,  vouchsafing  him  a 
" good-morning  "  of  the  gruffest. 

"Mr.  Kitely,"  said  Thomas,  "I  am  more  obliged  to  you 
than  I  can  tell,  for  what  you  did  last  night." 

"  Perhaps  you  ought  to  be  ;  but  it  wasn't  for  your  sake,  Mr. 
Worboise,  that  I  did  it." 

"I  am  quite  aware  of  that.  Still,  if  you  will  allow  me  to 
say  so,  I  am  as  much  obliged  to  you  as  if  it  had  been." 

Mr.  Kitely  grumbled  something,  for  he  was  not  prepared  to 
be  friendly. 

"  Will  you  let  me  wait  in  your  shop  till  Mr.  Stojjper  comes  ?  " 

"There  he  is." 

Thomas's  heart  beat  fast ;  but  he  delayed  only  to  give  Mr. 
Stopper  time  to  enter  the  more  retired  part  of  the  counting- 
house.     Then  he  hurried  to  the  door  and  went  in. 

Mr.  Stopper  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  glass  parti- 
tion, and  took  the  entrance  for  that  of  one  of  his  clerks. 
Thomas  tapped  at  the  glass  door,  but  not  till  he  had  opened  it 
and  said  "  Mr.  Stopper,"  did  he  take  any  notice.  He  started 
then,  and  turned  ;  but,  having  regarded  him  for  a  moment, 
gave  a  rather  constrained  smile,  and,  to  his  surprise,  held  out 
his  hand. 

"It  is  very  good  of  you  to  speak  to  me  at  all,  Mr.  Stopper," 
said  Thomas,  touched  with  gratitude  already.  "  I  don't  de- 
serve it." 

"  Well,  I  must  say  you  behaved  rather  strangely,  to  say  the 
least  of  it.  It  might  have  been  a  serious  thing  for  you,  Mr. 
Thomas,  if  I  hadn't  been  more  friendly  than  you  would  have 
given  me  credit  for.     Look  here." 

And  he  showed  him  the  sum  of  eleven  pounds  thirteen 
shillings  and  eightpence  halfpenny  put  down  to  Mr.  Stopper's 
debit  in  the  petty  cash-book. 

"  You  understand  that,  I  presume,  Mr.  Thomas.  You  ran 
the  risk  of  transportation  there." 

"  I  know  I  did,  Mr.  Stopper.  But  just  listen  to  me  a  mo- 
ment, and  you  will  be  able  to  forgive  me,  I  think.  I  had  been 
drinking,  and  gambling,  and  losing  all  night ;  and  I  believe  I 
was  really  drunk  when  I  did  that.  Not  that  I  didn't  know  I 
was  doing  wrong.  I  can't  say  that,  And  I  know  it  doesn't 
clear  me  at  all,  but  I  want  to  tell  you  the  truth  of  it.  I've 
been  wretched  ever  since,  and  daren't  show  myself.  I  have 
been  bitterly  punished.  I  haven't  touched  cards  or  dice  since. 
Here's  the  money,"  he  concluded,  offering  the  notes  and  gold. 


Thomas  and  Mr.  Stopper.  335 

Mr.  Stopper  did  not  heed  the  action  at  first.  He  was  re- 
garding Thomas  rather  curiously.     Thomas  perceived  it 

"  Yes,"  Thomas  said,  "  I  am  a  sailor.  It's  an  honest  way  of 
living,  and  I  like  it." 

"  But  you'll  come  back  now,  won't  you  ?" 

"  That  depends,"  answered  Thomas.  "  Would  you  take  me, 
now,  Mr.  Stopper  ? "  he  added,  with  a  feeble  experimental 
smile.  "But  there's  the  money.  Do  take  it  out  of  my 
hands." 

"It  lies  with  your  father  now,  Mr.  Thomas.  Have  you 
been  to  Highbury  ?  Of  course,  I  took  care  not  to  let  him 
know." 

"  Thank  you  heartily.  I'm  just  going  there.  Do  take  the 
horrid  money,  and  let  me  feel  as  if  I  weren't  a  thief  after 
all." 

"As  for  the  money,  eleven  pound,  odd,"  said  Mr.  Stopper, 
without  looking  at  it,  "that's  neither  here  nor  there.  It  was 
a  burglary,  there  can  be  no  doubt,  under  the  circumstances. 
But  I  owe  you  a  quarter's  salary,  though  I  should  not  be  bound 
to  pay  it,  seeing  you  left  as  you  did.  Still,  I  want  to  be  friend- 
ly, and  you  worked  very  fairly  for  it.  I  will  hand  you  over  the 
difference." 

"  No,  never  mind  that.  I  don't  care  about  the  money.  It 
was  all  that  damned  play,"  said  Thomas. 

"Don't  swear,  Mr.  Thomas,"  returned  Stopper,  taking  out 
the  check-book,  and  proceeding  to  write  a  check  for  thirteen 
pounds  six  shillings  and  fourpence. 

"If  you  had  suffered  as  much  from  it  as  I  have,  Mr.  Stop- 
per, you  would  see  no  harm  in  damning  it." 

Mr.  Stopper  made  no  reply,  but  handed  him  the  check,  with 
the  words  : 

"  Now  we're  clear,  Mr.  Thomas.  But  don't  do  it  again.  It 
won't  pass  twice.     I've  saved  you  this  time," 

"  Do  it  again  ! "  cried  Thomas,  seizing  Mr.  Stopper's  hand  ; 
"  I  would  sooner  cut  my  own  throat.  Thank  you,  thank  you 
a  thousand  times,  Mr.  Stopper,"  he  added,  his  heart  brimful 
at  this  beginning  of  his  day  of  horror. 

Mr.  Stopper  very  coolly  withdrew  his  hand,  turned  round  on 
his  stool,  replaced  his  check-book  in  the  drawer,  and  proceed- 
ed to  arrange  his  writing  materials,  as  if  nobody  were  there  but 
himself.  He  knew  well  enough  that  it  was  not  for  Thomas's 
sake  that  he  had  done  it ;  but  he  had  no  particular  objection 
to  take  the  credit  of  it.  There  was  something  rudely  impos- 
ing in  the  way  in  which  he  behaved  to  Thomas,  and  Thomas 


336  Guild  Court. 

felt  it  and  did  not  resent  it :  for  lie  had  no  right  to  be  indig- 
nant :  he  was  glad  of  any  terms  he  could  make.  Let  us  hope 
that  Mr.  Stopper  had  a  glimmering  of  how  it  might  feel  to 
have  been  kind,  and  that  he  was  a  little  more  ready  in  conse- 
quence to  do  a  friendly  deed  in  time  to  come,  even  when  he 
could  reap  no  benefit  from  it.  Though  Mr.  Stopper's  assump- 
tion of  faithful  friendship  could  only  do  him  harm,  yet  perhaps 
Thomas's  ready  acknowledgment  of  it  might  do  him  good  ;  for 
not  unfrequently  to  behave  to  a  man  as  good  rouses  his  con- 
science and  makes  him  wish  that  he  were  as  good  as  he  is  taken 
for.  It  gives  him  almost  a  taste  of  what  goodness  is  like — cer- 
tainly a  very  faint  and  far-off  taste — yet  a  something. 

Thomas  left  the  counting-house  a  free  man.  He  bounded 
back  to  Mr.  Fuller,  returned  the  money,  showed  him  the 
check,  and  told  him  all. 

"  There's  a  beginning  for  you,  my  boy  ! "  said  Mr.  Fuller, 
as  delighted  almost  as  Thomas  himself.  "  Now  for  the 
next." 

There  came  the  rub.  Thomas's  countenance  fell.  He  was 
afraid,  and  Mr.  Fuller  saw  it. 

"You  daren't  go  near  Lucy  till  you  have  been  to  your 
father.     It  would  be  to  insult  her,  Thomas. " 

Tom  caught  up  his  cap  from  the  table  and  left  the  house, 
once  more  resolved.  It  would  be  useless  to  go  to  Highbury  at 
this  hour ;  he  would  find  his  father  at  his  office  in  the  city. 
And  he  had  not  far  to  go  to  find  him — unfortunately,  thought 
Tom. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

THOMAS  AND   HIS     FATHER. 

"When  he  was  shown  into  his  father's  room  he  was  writing  a 
letter.  Looking  up  and  seeing  Tom  he  gave  a  grin — that  is,  a 
laugh  without  the  smile  in  it — handed  him  a  few  of  his  fingers, 
pointed  to  a  chair,  and  went  on  with  his  letter.  This  recep- 
tion irritated  Tom,  and  perhaps  so  far  did  him  good  that  it 
took  off  the  edge  of  his  sheepishness— or  rather,  I  should  have 
said,  put  an  edge  upon  it.  Before  his  father  he  did  not  feel 
that  he  appeared  exactly  as  a  culprit.  He  had  told  him  either 
to  give  up  Lucy,  or  not  to  show  his  face  at  home  again.     He 


I 


Thomas  and  his  Father.  337 

had  lost  Lucy,  it  might  he — though  hope  had  reviyed  greatly 
since  his  interview  with  Mr.  Stopper  ;  but,  in  any  case,  even 
if  she  refused  to  see  him,  he  would  not  give  her  up.  So  he 
sat,  more  composed  than  he  had  expected  to  be,  waiting  for 
what  should  follow.  In  a  few  minutes  his  father  looked  up 
again,  as  he  methodically  folded  his  letter,  and  casting  a  sneer- 
ing glance  at  his  son's  garb,  said  : 

"What's  the  meaning  of  this  masquerading,  Tom  ?" 

"  It  means  that  I  am  dressed  like  my  work,"  answered  Tom, 
surprised  at  his  own  coolness,  now  that  the  ice  was  broken. 

"  What's  your  work,  then,  pray  ?  " 

"  I'm  a  sailor." 

"  You  a  sailor  !     A  horse-marine,  I  suppose  !    Ha,  ha  ! " 

"  I've  made  five  coasting  voyages  since  you  turned  me  out," 
said  Tom. 

"I  turned  you  out  !  You  turned  yourself  out.  Why  the 
devil  did  you  come  back,  then  ?  Why  don't  you  stick  to  your 
new  trade  ?  " 

"You  told  me  either  to  give  up  Lucy  Burton,  or  take  lodg- 
ings in  Wapping.     I  won't  give  up  Lucy  Burton." 

"  Take  her  to  hell,  if  you  like.  What  do  you  come  back  here 
for  with  your  cursed  impudence  ?  There's  nobody  I  want  less." 

This  was  far  from  true.  He  had  been  very  uneasy  about  his 
son.  Yet  now  that  he  saw  him — a  prey  to  the  vile  demon  that 
ever  stirred  up  his  avarice  till  the  disease,  which  was  as  the 
rust  spoken  of  by  the  prophet  St.  James,  was  eating  Lis  flesh 
as  it  were  fire — his  tyrannical  disposition,  maddened  by  the  re- 
sistance of  his  son,  and  the  consequent  frustration  of  his 
money-making  plans,  broke  out  in  this  fierce,  cold,  blasting 
wrath. 

"  I  come  here,"  said  Thomas — and  he  said  it  merely  to  dis- 
charge himself  of  a  duty,  for  he  had  not  the  thinnest  shadow 
of  a  hope  that  it  would  be  of  service — "I  come  here  to  protest 
against  the  extreme  to  which  you  are  driving  your  legal 
rights — which  I  have  only  just  learned — against  Mrs.  Boxall." 

"And  her  daughter.  But  I  am  not  aware  that  I  am  driving 
my  rights,  as  you  emphasize  the  word,"  said  Mr.  Worboise, 
relapsing  into  his  former  manner,  so  cold  that  it  stung  ;  "for 
I  believe  I  have  driven  them  already  almost  as  far  as  my 
knowledge  of  affairs  allows  me  to  consider  prudent.  I  have 
turned  those  people  out  of  the  house." 

"  You  have  ! "  cried  Thomas,  starting  to  his  feet.    "  Father  ! 
father  !  you  are  worse  than  even  I  thought  you.     It  is  cruel ; 
it  is  wicked." 
22 


338  Guild  Court. 

"Don't  discompose  yourself  about  it.  It  is  all  your  own 
fault,  my  son." 

"  I  am  no. son  of  yours.  From  this  moment  I  renounce  you, 
and  call  you  father  no  more,"  cried  Thomas,  in  mingled  wrath 
and  horror  and  consternation  at  the  atrocity  of  his  father's 
conduct. 

"By  what  name,  then,  will  you  be  pleased  to  be  known  in 
future,  that  I  may  say  when  I  hear  it  that  you  are  none  of 
mine  ?" 

"'Oh,  the  devil !"  burst  out  Tom,  beside  himself  with  his 
father's  behavior  and  treatment. 

"  Very  well.  Then  I  beg  again  to  inform  you,  Mr.  Devil,  that 
it  is  your  own  fault.  Give  up  that  girl,  and  I  will  provide  for 
the  iovely  siren  and  her  harridan  of  a  grandam  for  life  ;  and 
take  you  home  to  wealth  and  a  career  which  you  shall  choose 
for  yourself. " 

"No,  father.     I  will  not." 

"Then  take  yourself  off,  and  be — "  It  is  needless  to  print 
the  close  of  the  sentence. 

Thomas  rose  and  left  the  room.  As  he  went  down  the 
stairs,  his  father  shouted  after  him,  in  a  tone  of  fury  : 

"You're  not  to  go  near  your  mother,  mind." 

"I'm  going  straight  to  her,"  answered  Tom,  as  quietly  as 
he  could. 

"If  you  do,  I'll  murder  her." 

Tom  came  up  the  stairs  again  to  the  door  nest  his  father's 
where  the  clerks  sat.     He  opened  this  and  said  aloud  : 

"  Gentlemen,  you  hear  what  my  father  has  just  said.  There 
may  be  occasion  to  refer  to  it  again."  Then  returning  to  his 
father's  door,  he  said,  in  a  low  tone  which  only  he  could  hear  : 
"  My  mother  may  die  any  moment,  as  you  very  well  know, 
sir.     It  may  be  awkward  after  what  has  just  passed." 

Having  said  this,  he  left  his  father  a  little  abashed.  As  his 
wrath  ebbed,  he  began  to  admire  his  son's  presence  of  mind, 
and  even  to  take  some  credit  for  it:  "A  chip  of  the  old 
block  !  "  he  muttered  to  himself.  "Who  would  have  thought 
there  was  so  much  in  the  rascal  ?  Seafaring  must  agree  with 
the  young  beggar  ! " 

Thomas  hailed  the  first  hansom,  jumped  in,  and  drove 
straight  to  Highbury.  Was  it  strange  that  notwithstanding 
the  dreadful  interview  he  had  just  had — notwithstanding,  too, 
that  he  feared  he  had  not  behaved  properly  to  his  father,  for 
his  conscience  had  already  begun  to  speak  about  comparatively 
little  things,  having  been  at  last  hearkened  to  in  regard  to 


Thomas  and  his  Mother.  339 

great  things — that  notwithstanding  this,  he  should  feel  such  a 
gladness  in  his  being  as  he  had  never  known  before  ?  The 
second  and  more  awful  load  of  duty  was  now  lifted  from  his 
mind.  True,  if  he  had  loved  his  father  much,  as  it  was 
simply  impossible  that  he  should,  that  load  would  have  been 
replaced  by  another — misery  about  his  father's  wretched  con- 
dition and  the  loss  of  his  love.  But  although  something  of 
this  would  come  later,  the  thought  of  it  did  not  intrude  now 
to  destroy  any  of  the  enjoyment  of  the  glad  reaction  from 
months — he  would  have  said  years — yea,  a  whole  past  life  of 
misery — for  the  whole  of  his  past  life  had  been  such  a  poor 
thing,  that  it  seemed  now  as  if  the  misery  of  the  last  few 
months  had  been  only  the  misery  of  all  his  life  coming  to  a 
head.  And  this  indeed  was  truer  than  his  judgment  would 
yet  have  allowed  :  it  was  absolute  fact,  although  he  attributed 
it  to  an  overwrought  fancy. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

THOMAS    AND    HIS    MOTHEK. 

When"  the  maid  opened  the  door  to  him  she  stared  like  an 
idiot,  yet  she  was  in  truth  a  woman  of  sense ;  for,  before 
Thomas  had  reached  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  she  ran  after  him, 
saying : 

"  Mr.  Thomas  !  Mr.  Thomas  !  you  mustn't  go  up  to  mis'ess 
all  of  a  sudden.     You'll  kill  her  if  you  do." 

Thomas  paused  at  once. 

"  Run  up  and  tell  her,  then.     Make  haste." 

She  sped  up  the  stairs,  and  Thomas  followed,  waiting  out- 
side his  mother's  door.  He  had  to  wait  a  little  while,  for  the 
maid  was  imparting  the  news  with  circumspection.  He  heard 
the  low  tone  of  his  mother's  voice,  but  could  not  hear  what 
she  said.  At  last  came  a  little  cry,  and  then  he  could  hear  her 
sob.  A  minute  or  two  more  passed,  which  seemed  endless  to 
Thomas,  and  then  the  maid  came  to  the  door,  and  asked  him 
to  go  in.     He  obeyed. 

His  mother  lay  in  bed,  propped  up  as  she  used  to  be  on  the 
sofa.     She  looked  much  worse  than  before.    She  stretched  out 


340  Guild  Court 

her  arms  to  him,  kissed  him,  and  held  his  head  to  her  bosom. 
He  had  never  before  had  such  an  embrace  from  her. 

"My  boy  !  my  boy!"  she  cried,  weeping.  "Thank  God! 
I  have  you  again.     You'll  tell  me  all  about  it,  won't  you  ?" 

She  went  on  weeping  and  murmuring  words  of  endearment 
and  gratitude  for  some  time.  Then  she  released  him,  holding 
one  of  his  hands  only. 

"  There's  a  chair  there.  Sit  down  and  tell  me  about  it.  I 
am  afraid  your  poor  father  has  been  hard  upon  you." 

"  We  won't  talk  about  my  father,"  said  Thomas.  "  I  have 
faults  enough  of  my  own  to  confess,  mother.  But  I  won't  tell 
you  all  about  them  now.  I  have  been  very  wicked — gambling 
and  worse  ;  but  I  will  never  do  so  any  more.  I  am  ashamed 
and  sorry  ;  and  I  think  God  will  forgive  me.  "Will  you  forgive 
me,  mother  ?  " 

"  With  all  my  heart,  my  boy.  And  you  know  that  God  for- 
gives every  one  that  believes  in  Jesus.  I  hope  you  have  given 
your  heart  to  him,  at  last.     Then  I  shall  die  happy." 

"  I  don't  know,  mother,  whether  I  have  or  not ;  but  I  want 
to  do  what's  right." 

"  That  won't  save  you,  my  poor  child.  You'll  have  a  talk 
with  Mr.  Simon  about  it,  won't  you  ?  I'm  not  able  to  argue 
anything  now." 

It  would  have  been  easiest  for  Thomas  to  say  nothing,  and 
leave  his  mother  to  hope,  at  least ;  but  he  had  begun  to  be 
honest,  therefore  he  would  not  deceive  her.  But  in  his  new 
anxiety  to  be  honest,  he  was  in  great  danger  of  speaking 
roughiy,  if  not  rudely.  Those  who  find  it  difficult  to  oppose 
are  in  more  danger  than  others  of  falling  into  that  error  when 
they  make  opposition  a  point  of  conscience.  The  unpleasant- 
ness of  the  duty  irritates  them. 

"  Mother,  I  will  listen  to  anything  you  choose  to  say  ;  but  I 
won't  see  that — "  fool  he  was  going  to  say,  but  he  changed  the 
epithet — "  I  won't  talk  about  such  things  to  a  man  for  whom 
I  have  no  respect." 

Mrs.  Worboise  gave  a  sigh  ;  but,  perhaps  partly  because  her 
own  respect  for  Mr.  Simon  had  been  a  little  shaken  of  late, 
she  said  nothing  more.     Thomas  resumed. 

"  If  I  hadn't  been  taken  by  the  hand  by  a  very  different 
man  from  him,  mother,  I  shouldn't  have  been  here  to- 
day. Thank  God  !  Mr.  Fuller  is  something  like  a  clergy- 
man ! " 

"  Who  is  he,  Thomas  ?    I  think  I  have  heard  the  name." 

"  He  is  the  clergyman  of  St.  Amos's  in  the  city." 


Thomas  and  his  Mother.  341 

"Ah  !  I  thought  so.  A  Ritualist,  I  am  afraid,  Thomas. 
They  lay  snares  for  young  people." 

"  Nonsense,  mother  !  "  said  Thomas,  irreverently.  "  I  don't 
know  what  you  mean.  Mr.  Fuller,  I  think,  would  not  feel 
flattered  to  be  told  that  he  belonged  to  any  party  whatever  but 
that  of  Jesus  Christ  himself.  But  I  should  say,  if  he  belonged 
to  any,  it  would  be  the  Broad  Church. " 

"I  don't  know  which  is  worse.  The  one  believes  all  the 
lying  idolatry  of  the  Papists ;  the  other  believes  nothing  at 
all.  I'm  sadly  afraid,  Thomas,  you've  been  reading  Bishop 
Colenso." 

Mrs.  Worboise  believed,  of  course,  in  no  distinctions  but 
those  she  saw  ;  and  if  she  had  heard  the  best  men  of  the  Broad 
Church  party  repudiate  Bishop  Colenso,  she  would  only  have 
set  it  down  to  Jesuitism. 

"  A  sailor  hasn't  much  time  for  reading,  mother." 

"  A  sailor,  Thomas  !  What  do  you  mean  ?  Where  have  you 
been  all  this  time  ?"  she  asked,  examining  his  appearance 
anxiously. 

"  At  sea,  mother." 

"  My  boy  !  my  boy  !  that  is  a  godless  calling.     However — " 

Thomas  interrupted  her. 

"  They  that  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships  were  supposed  once 
to  see  the  wonders  of  the  Lord,  mother." 

"  Yes.  But  when  will  you  be  reasonable  ?  That  was  in 
David's  time." 

"  The  sea  is  much  the  same,  and  man's  heart  is  much  the 
same.  Anyhow,  I'm  a  sailor,  and  a  sailor  I  must  be.  I  have 
nothing  else  to  do." 

"Mr.  Boxall's  business  is  all  your  father's  now,  I  hear; 
though  I'm  sure  I  cannot  understand  it.  Whatever  you've 
done,  you  can  go  back  to  the  counting-house,  you  know." 

"  I  can't,  mother.     My  father  and  I  have  parted  forever." 

"  Tom  ! " 

"It's  true,  mother." 

"  Why  is  that  ?     What  have  you  been  doing  ?  " 

"Refusing  to  give  up  Lucy  Burton." 

"  Oh,  Tom,  Tom  !  Why  do  you  set  yourself  against  your 
father  ?  " 

"  Well,  mother,  I  don't  want  to  be  impertinent ;  but  it 
seems  to  me  it's  no  more  than  you  have  been  doing  all  your 
life." 

"For  conscience'  sake,  Tom.  But  in  matters  indifferent 
we  ought  to  yield,  you  know." 


342  Guild  Court 

"Is  it  an  indifferent  matter  to  keep  one's  engagements, 
mother  ?     To  be  true  to  one's  word  ?  " 

"  But  you  had  no  right  to  make  them." 

"  They  are  made,  anyhow,  and  I  must  bear  the  consequences 
of  keeping  them." 

Mrs.  Worboise,  poor  woman,  was  nearly  worn  out.  Tom  saw 
it,  and  rose  to  go. 

"Am  I  never  to  see  you  again,  Tom  ?"  she  asked,  despair- 
ingly. ■ 

"Every  time  I  come  to  London  —  so  long  as  my  father 
doesn't  make  you  shut  the  door  against  me,  mother." 

"  That  shall  never  be,  my  boy.  And  you  really  are  going 
on  that  sea  again  ? " 

"Yes,  mother.  It's  an  honest  calling.  And  believe  me, 
mother,  it's  often  easier  to  pray  to  God  on  shipboard  than  it 
is  sitting  at  a  desk." 

"Well,  well,  my  boy  !"  said  his  mother,  with  a  great  sigh  of 
weariness.  "If  I  only  knew  that  you  were  possessed  of  saving 
faith,  I  could  bear  even  to  hear  that  you  had  been  drowned. 
It  may  happen  any  day,  you  know,  Thomas." 

"Not  till  God  please.     I  shan't  be  drowned  before  that." 

1 '  God  has  given  no  pledge  to  protect  any  but  those  that  put 
faith  in  the  merits  of  his  Son." 

"Mother,  mother,  I  can't  tell  a  bit  what  you  mean." 

"  The  way  of  salvation  is  so  plain  that  he  that  runneth  may 
read." 

"  So  you  say,  mother  ;  but  I  don't  see  it  so.  Now  I'll  tell 
you  what :  I  want  to  be  good." 

"  My  dear  boy  ! " 

"  And  I  pray,  and  will  pray  to  God  to  teach  me  whatever  he 
wants  me  to  learn.  So  if  your  way  is  the  right  one,  God  will 
teach  me  that.     "Will  that  satisfy  you,  mother  ?  " 

"My  dear,  it  is  of  no  use  mincing  matters.  God  has  told 
us  plainly  in  his  holy  "Word  that  he  that  puts  his  trust  in  the 
merits  of  Christ  shall  be  saved ;  and  he  that  does  not  shall  be 
sent  to  the  place  of  misery  for  ever  and  ever." 

The  good  woman  believed  that  she  was  giving  a  true  repre- 
sentation of  the  words  of  Scripture  when  she  said  so,  and  that 
they  were  an  end  of  all  controversy. 

"  But,  mother,  what  if  a  man  can't  believe  ?" 

"  Then  he  must  take  the  consequences.  -There's  no  provis- 
ion made  for  that  in  the  "Word." 

"But  if  he  wants  to  believe,  mother?"  said  Tom,  in  a 
small  agony  at  his  mother's  hardness. 


Thomas  and  his  Mother.  343 

"  There's  no  man  that  can't  believe,  if  he's  only  willing.  I 
used  to  think  otherwise.  But  Mr.  Simon  thinks  so,  and  he 
has  brought  me  to  see  that  he  is  right." 

"  Well,  mother,  I'm  glad  Mr.  Simon  is  not  at  the  head  of 
the  universe,  for  then  it  would  be  a  paltry  affair.  But  it  ill 
becomes  me  to  make  remarks  upon  anybody.  Mr.  Simon 
hasn't  disgraced  himself  like  me  after  all,  though  I'm  pretty 
sure  if  I  had  had  such  teaching  as  Mr.  Fuller's,  instead  of  his, 
I  should  never  have  fallen  as  I  have  done. " 

Thomas  said  this  with  some  bitterness  as  he  rose  to  take  his 
leave.  He  had  no  right  to  say  so.  Men  as  good  as  he,  with 
teaching  as  good  as  Mr.  Fuller's,  have  yet  fallen.  He  forgot 
that  he  had  had  the  schooling  of  sin  and  misery  to  prepare  the 
soil  of  his  heart  before  Mr.  Fuller's  words  were  sown  in  it  Even 
Mr.  Simon  could  have  done  a  little  for  him  in  that  condition, 
if  he  had  only  been  capable  of  showing  him  a  little  pure 
human  sympathy. 

His  mother  gave  him  another  tearful  embrace.  Thomas's 
heart  was  miserable  at  leaving  her  thus  fearful,  almost 
hopeless  about  him.  How  terrible  it  would  be  for  her  in  the 
windy  nights,  when  she  could  not  sleep,  to  think  that  if  he 
went  to  the  bottom,  it  must  be  to  go  deeper  still !  He 
searched  his  mind  eagerly  for  something  that  might  comfort 
her.     It  flashed  upon  him  at  last. 

"  Mother  dear,"  he  said,  "Jesus  said,  (  Come  unto  me,  all 
ye  that  are  weary  and  heavy-laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest. '  I 
will  go  to  him.  I  will  promise  you  that  if  you  like.  That  is 
all  I  can  say,  and  I  think  that  ought  to  be  enough.  If  he 
gives  me  rest,  shall  I  not  be  safe  ?  And  whoever  says  that  he 
will  not  if  I  go  to  him — " 

"In  the  appointed  way,  my  dear." 

"  He  says  nothing  more  than  go  to  him.  I  say  I  will  go  to 
him,  the  only  way  that  a  man  can  when  he  is  in  heaven  and  I 
am  on  the  earth.  And  if  Mr.  Simon  or  anybody  says  that  he 
will  not  give  me  rest,  he  is  a  liar.  If  that  doesn't  satisfy  you, 
mother,  I  don't  believe  you  have  any  faith  in  him  yourself." 

With  this  outburst,  Thomas  again  kissed  his  mother,  and 
then  left  the  room.  Nor  did  his  last  words  displease  her.  I 
do  not  by  any  means  set  him  up  as  a  pattern  of  filial  respect 
even  toward  his  mother  ;  nor  can  I  approve  altogether  of  the 
form  his  confession  of  faith  took,  for  there  was  in  it  a  mixture 
of  that  graceless  material — the  wrath  of  man  ;  but  it  was  good, 
notwithstanding ;  and  such  a  blunt  utterance  was  far  more 
calculated  to  carry  some  hope  into  his  mother's  mind  than  any 


344:  Guild  Court. 

I 

amount  of  arguing  upon  the  points  of  difference  between 
them. 

As  he  reached  the  landing,  his  sister  Amy  came  rushing  up 
the  stairs  from  the  dining-room,  with  her  hair  in  disorder, 
and  a  blushing  face. 

"  Why  Tom  ! "  she  said,  starting  back. 

Tom  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"  How  handsome  you  have  grown,  Tom  ! "  said  Amy ;  and 
breaking  from  him,  ran  up  to  her  mother's  room. 

Passing  the  dining-room  door,  Tom  saw  Mr.  Simon  looking 
into  the  fire.  The  fact  was  he  had  just  made  Amy  an  offer  of 
marriage.  Tom  let  him  stand,  and  hurried  back  on  foot  to  his 
friend,  his  heart  full,  and  his  thoughts  in  confusion. 

He  found  him  in  his  study,  where  he  had  made  a  point  of 
staying  all  day  that  Tom  might  find  him  at  any  moment  when 
he  might  want  him.     He  rose  eagerly  to  meet  him. 

"'Now  I  see  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done,'"  he  said, 
quoting  King  Arthur. 

They  sat  down,  and  Tom  told  him  all. 

"I  wish  you  had  managed  a  little  better  with  your  father," 
he  said. 

"  I  wish  I  had,  sir.  But  it's  done,  and  there's  no  help  for 
it." 

"No  ;  I  suppose  not — at  present,  at  least." 

"As  far  as  Lucy  is  concerned,  it  would  have  made  no  differ- 
ence, if  you  had  been  in  my  place — I  am  confident  of  that." 

"  I  dare  say  you  are  right.  But  you  have  earned  your  din- 
ner anyhow  ;  and  here  comes  my  housekeeper  ±0  say  it  is 
ready.     Come  along." 

Thomas's  face  fell. 

"  I  thought  I  should  have  gone  to  see  Lucy,  now,  sir." 

"  I  believe  she  will  not  be  at  home." 

"  She  was  always  home  from  Mrs.  Morgenstern's  before 
now." 

"Yes.  But  she  has  to  work  much  harder  now.  You  see 
her  grandmother  is  dependent  on  her  now." 

"  And  where  are  they  ?  My  father  told  me  himself  he  had 
turned  them  out  of  the  house  in  Guild  Court." 

"Yes.  But  they  are  no  farther  off  for  that;  they  have 
lodgings  at  Mr.  Kitely's .  I  think  yon  had  better  go  and  see 
your  friends  the  sailor  and  publican  after  dinner,  and  by  the 
time  you  come  back,  I  shall  have  arranged  for  your  seeing 
her.  You  would  hardly  like  to  take  your  chance,  and  find 
her  with  her  grandmother  and  Mattie." 


Thomas  and  his  Mother.  345 

"Who  is  Mattie  ?  Oh  !  I  know— that  dreadful  little  imp 
of  Kitely's." 

"  I  dare  say  she  can  make  herself  unpleasant  enough,"  said 
Mr.  Fuller,  laughing  ;  "  but  she  is  a  most  remarkable  and  very 
interesting  child.  I  could  hardly  have  believed  in  such  a  child, 
if  I  had  not  known  her.  She  was  in  great  danger,  I  allow,  of 
turning  out  a  little  prig,  if  that  word  can  be  used  of  the 
feminine  gender,  but  your  friend  Lucy  has  saved  her  from 
that." 

"  God  bless  her  !"  said  Thomas,  fervently.  "  She  has  saved 
me  too,  even  if  she  refuses  to  have  anything  more  to  do  with 
me.  How  shall  I  tell  her  everything  ?  Since  I  have  had  it 
over  with  my  father  and  Stopper,  I  feel  as  if  I  were  white- 
washed, and  to  have  to  tell  her  what  a  sepulchre  I  am  is  dread- 
ful— and  she  so  white  outside  and  in  ! " 

"Yes,  it's  hard  to  do,  my  boy,  but  it  must  be  done." 

"I  would  do  it — I  would  insist  upon  it,  even  if  she  begged 
me  not,  Mr.  Fuller.  If  she  were  to  say  that  she  would  love 
me  all  the  same,  and  I  needn't  say  a  word  about  the  past,  for 
it  was  all  over  now,  I  would  yet  beg  her  to  endure  the  ugly 
story  for  my  sake,  that  I  might  hear  my  final  absolution  from 
her  lips." 

"  That's  right,"  said  Mr.  Fuller. 

They  were  now  seated  at  dinner,  and  nothing  more  of  im- 
portance to  our  history  was  said  until  that  was  over.  Then  they 
returned  to  the  study,  and,  as  soon  as  he  had  closed  the  door, 
Mr.  Fuller  said : 

"  But  now,  Worboise,  it  is  time  that  I  should  talk  to  you  a 
little  more  about  yourself.  There  is  only  One  that  can  absolve 
you  in  the  grand  sense  of  the  word.  If  God  himself  were  to 
say  to  you,  '  Let  by-gones  be  by-gones,  nothing  more  shall  be 
said  about  them ' — if  he  only  said  that,  it  would  be  a  poor 
thing  to  meet  our  human  need.  But  he  is  infinitely  kinder 
than  that.  He  says,  '  I,  even  I  am  he  that  taketh  away  thine 
iniquities.'  He  alone  can  make  us  clean — put  our  heart  so 
right  that  nothing  of  this  kind  will  happen  again — make  us 
simple  God-loving,  man-loving  creatures,  as  much  afraid  of 
harboring  an  unjust  thought  of  our  neighbors  as  of  stealing 
that  which  is  his  ;  as  much  afraid  of  pride  and  self-confidence 
as  of  saying  with  the  fool,  '  There  is  no  God  ; '  as  far  from 
distrusting  God  for  the  morrow,  as  from  committing  suicide. 
We  cannot  serve  God  and  Mammon.  Hence  the  constant 
struggle  and  discomfort  in  the  minds  of  even  good  men.  They 
would.,  without  knowing  what  they  are  doing,  combine  a  little 


346  Guild  Court 

Mammon-worship  with  the  service  of  the  God  they  love.  But 
that  cannot  be.  The  Spirit  of  God  will  ever  and  always  be  at 
strife  with  Mammon,  and  in  proportion  as  that  spirit  is  vic- 
torious, is  peace  growing  in  the  man.  You  must  give  your- 
self up  to  the  obedience  of  his  Son  entirely  and  utterly,  leaving 
your  salvation  to  him,  troubling  yourself  nothing  about  that, 
but  ever  seeking  to  see  things  as  he  sees  them,  and  to  do 
things  as  he  would  have  them  doue.  And  for  this  purpose 
you  must  study  your  New  Testament  in  particular,  that  you 
see  the  glory  of  God  in  the  face  of  Christ  Jesus ;  that  receiving 
him  as  your  master,  your  teacher,  your  saviour,  you  may  open 
your  heart  to  the  entrance  of  his  spirit,  the  mind  that  was  in 
him,  that  so  he  may  save  you.  Every  word  of  his,  if  you  will 
but  try  to  obey  it,  you  will  find  precious  beyond  words  to  say. 
And  he  has  promised  without  reserve  the  Holy  Spirit  of  God 
to  them  that  ask  it.  The  only  salvation  is  in  being  filled  with 
the  Spirit  of  God,  the  mind  of  Christ." 

"  I  believe  you,  sir,  though  I  cannot  quite  see  into  all  you 
say.  All  I  can  say  is,  that  I  want  to  be  good  henceforth. 
Pray  for  me,  sir,  if  you  think  there  is  any  good  in  one  man 
praying  for  another." 

"  I  do,  indeed — just  in  proportion  to  the  love  that  is  in  it. 
I  cannot  exactly  tell  how  this  should  be ;  but  if  we  believe 
that  the  figure  St.  Paul  uses  about  our  all  being  members  of 
one  body  has  any  true,  deep  meaning  in  it,  we  shall  have  just 
a  glimmering  of  how  it  can  be  so.  Come,  then,  we  will  kneel 
together,  and  I  will  pray  with  you." 

Thomas  felt  more  solemn  by  far  than  he  had  ever  felt  in  his 
life  when  he  rose  from  that  prayer. 

"Now,"  said  Mr.  Fuller,  "go  and  see  your  friends.  When 
you  think  of  it,  my  boj^,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  during 
which  he  held  Tom's  hand  in  a  warm  grasp,  "you  will  see 
how  God  has  been  looking  after  you,  giving  you  friend  after 
friend  of  such  different  sorts  to  make  up  for  the  want  of  a 
father,  and  so  driving  you  home  at  last,  home  to  himself.  He 
had  to  drive  you ;  but  he  will  lead  you  now.  You  will  be 
home  by  half-past  six  or  seven  ?  " 

Thomas  assented.  He  could  not  speak.  He  could  only 
return  the  grasp  of  Mr.  Fuller's  hand.  Then  he  took  his  cap 
and  went. 

It  is  needless  to  give  any  detailed  account  of  Thomas's 
meeting  with  the  Pottses.  He  did  not  see  tbe  captain,  who 
had  gone  down  to  his  brig.  Mrs.  Potts  (and  Bessie  too,  after 
a  fashion)  welcomed  him  heartily ;  but  Mr.  Potts  was  a  little 


, 


Thomas  and  his  Mother.  347 

aggrieved  that  he  would  drink  nothing  but  a  glass  of  bitter 
ale.  He  had  the  watch  safe,  and  brought  it  out  gladly  when 
Thomas  produced  his  check. 

Jim  Salter  dropped  in  at  the  last  moment.  He  had  heard 
the  night  before  that  Thomas  was  restored  to  society  and  was 
expected  to  call  at  the  Mermaid  some  time  that  day.  So  he 
had  been  in  or  looking  in  a  dozen  times  since  the  morning. 
When  he  saw  Tom,  who  was  just  taking  his  leave,  he  came  up 
to  him,  holding  out  his  hand,  but  speaking  as  with  a  sense  of 
wrong. 

"  How  de  do,  guv'nor  ?  Who'd  ha'  thought  to  see  you  here  ! 
Ain't  you  got  ne'er  another  sixpence  to  put  a  name  upon  it  ? 
You're  fond  o'  sixpences,  you  are,  guv'nor." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Jim  ?  "  asked  Thomas,  in  much  bewild- 
erment. 

"  To  think  o'  treatin'  a  man  and  a  brother  as  you've  treated 
me,  after  I'd  been  and  devoted  my  life,  leastways  a  good  part 
of  it,  to  save  you  from  the  police  !     Four  and  sixpence  ! " 

Still  bewildered,  Thomas  appealed  to  Mr.  Potts,  whose  face 
looked  as  like  a  caricature  of  the  moon  as  ever,  although  he 
had  just  worked  out  a  very  neat  little  problem  in  diplomacy. 

"It's  my  fault,  Mr.  Worboise,"  he  responded  in  his  usual 
voice,  which  seemed  .to  come  from  a  throat  lined  with  the 
insides  of  dates.  I  forgot  to  tell  you,  sir,  that,  that —  Don't 
you  see,  Jim,  you  fool ! "  he  said,  changing  the  object  of  his 
address  abruptly — "you  wouldn't  have  liked  to  rob  a  gentle- 
man like  that  by  takin'  of  half  a  suvering  for  loafin'  about  for 
a  day  with  him  when  he  was  hard  up.  But  as  he's  come  by 
his  own  again,  why  there's  no  use  in  keeping  it  from  you  any 
longer.  So  there's  your  five  and  sixpence.  But  it's  a  devil  of 
a  shame.     Go  out  of  my  house." 

"  Whew  ! "  whistled  Jim  Salter.  "  Two  words  to  that,  guv'nor 
o'  the  Marmaid.  You've  been  and  kep'  me  all  this  many  a  day 
out  of  my  inheritance,  as  they  say  at  the  Britanuary.  What 
do  you  say  to  that,  sir  ?  What  do  you  think  o'  yerself,  sir  ? 
I  wait  a  reply,  as  the  butcher  said  to  the  pig." 

While  he  spoke,  Jim  pocketed  the  money.  Eeceiving  no 
reply  except  a  sniff  of  Mr.  Potts's  red  nose,  he  broke  out  again, 
more  briefly  : 

"I  tell  'ee  what,  guv'nor  of  the  Marmaid,  I  don't  go  out  o' 
your  house  till  I've  put  a  name  upon  it." 

Quite  defeated  and  rather  dejected,  Mr.  Potts  took  down  his 
best  brandy,  and  poured  out  a  bumper. 

Jim  tossed  it  off,  and  set  down  the  glass.     Then,  and  not 


348  Guild  Court. 

till  then,  he  turned  to  Thomas,  who  had  been  looking  on,  half 
vexed  with  Mr.  Potts,  and  half  amused  with  Jim. 

"Well,  I  am  glad,  Mr.  Wurbus,  as  you've  turned  out  a 
honest  man  arter  all.  I  assure  you,  sir,  at  one  time,  and  that 
not  much  farther  off  than  that  'ere  glass  o'  rum — " 

"  Brandy,  you  loafing  rascal !  the  more's  the  pity,"  said 
Mr.  Potts. 

"Than  that  'ere  glass  o'  rum,"  repeated  Jim,  "I  had  my 
doubts.  I  wasn't  so  sure  of  it,  as  the  fox  was  o'  the  goose 
when  he  had  his  neck  atwixt  his  teeth." 

So  saying,  and  without  another  word,  Jim  Salter  turned 
and  left  the  Mermaid.  Jim  was  one  of  those  who  seem  to 
have  an  especial  organ  for  the  sense  of  wrong,  from  which 
organ  no  amount  or  kind  of  explanation  can  ever  remove  an 
impression.  They  prefer  to  cherish  it.  Their  very  acknowl- 
edgments of  error  are  uttered  in  a  tone  that  proves  they  con- 
sider the  necessity  of  making  them  only  in  the  light  of  accu- 
mulated injury. 


OHAPTEE  L. 

THOMAS  AND  LUCY. 

When  Lucy  came  home  the  night  before,  she  found  her 
grandmother  sitting  by  the  fire,  gazing  reproachfully  at  the 
coals.  The  poor  woman  had  not  yet  reconciled  herself  to  her 
altered  position.  Widdles  was  in  vain  attempting  to  attract 
her  attention  ;  but,  not  being  gifted  with  speech  like  his  gray 
brother  in  the  next  cage  to  his— whose  morals,  by  the  way, 
were  considerably  reformed,  thanks  to  his  master's  judicious 
treatment  of  him — he  had  but  few  modes  of  bringing  his 
wishes  to  bear  at  a  distance.  He  could  only  rattle  his  beak  on 
the  bars  of  his  cage,  and  give  a  rending  shriek. 

The  immediate  occasion  of  her  present  mood  was  Thomas's 
note,  which  was  over  her  head  on  the  mantel-piece.  Notes  had 
occasionally  passed  between  him  and  Lucy,  and  she  knew  the 
handwriting.  She  regarded  him  with  the  same  feelings  with 
which  she  regarded  his  father,  but  she  knew  that  Lucy  did 
not  share  in  these  feelings.  And  forgetting  that  she  was  now 
under  Lucy's  protection,  she  was  actually  vowing  with  herself 
at  the  moment  Lucy  entered  that  if  she  had  one  word  of  other 


Thomas  and  Lucy.  349 

than  repudiation  to  say  to  Thomas,  she  would  turn  her  out  of 
the  house.  She  was  not  going  to  encourage  such  lack  of  prin- 
ciple. She  gave  her  no  greeting,  therefore,  when  she  entered ; 
hut  Lucy,  whose  quick  eye  caught  sight  of  the  note  at  once, 
did  not  miss  it.  She  took  the  note  with  a  trembling  hand,  and 
hurried  from  the  room.     Then  Mrs.  Boxall  hurst  into  a  blaze. 

"  Where  are  you  off  to  now,  you  minx  ?  "  she  said. 

"  I  am  going  to  put  my  bonnet  off,  grannie,"  answered 
Lucy,  understanding  well  enough,  and  waiting  no  farther 
parley. 

She  could  hardly  open  the  notej  which  was  fastened  with  a 
wafer,  her  hands  trembled  so  much.  Before  she  had  read  it 
through  she  fell  on  her  knees,  and  thus,  like  Hezekiah, 
"spread  it  before  the  Lord,"  and  finished  it  so. 

And  now,  indeed,  was  her  captivity  turned.  She  had  noth- 
ing to  say  but ."  Thank  God  !"  she  had  nothing  to  do  but 
weep.  True,  she  was  a  little  troubled  that  she  could  not  re- 
ply :  but  when  sbe  made  inquiry  about  the  messenger,  to  see 
if  she  could  learn  anything  of  where  Tom  was  to  be  found, 
Mr.  Kitely,  who,  I  have  said,  returned  home  immediately  after 
Mr.  Fuller  dismissed  him  (though  in  his  anxiety  he  went  back 
and  loitered  about  the  church  door),  told  her  that  young 
Worboise  was  at  that  moment  with  Mr.  Fuller  in  his  vestry. 
He  did  not  tell  her  how  he  came  to  be  there.  Nothing,  there- 
fore, remained  for  her  but  to  be  patient,  and  wait  for  what 
would  come  next.  And  the  next  thing  was  a  note  from  Mr. 
Fuller,  telling  her  that  Thomas  was  at  his  house,  bidding  her 
be  of  good  cheer,  and  saying  that  she  should  hear  from  him 
again  to-morrow.     She  did  not  sleep  much  that  night. 

But  she  had  a  good  deal  to  bear  from  her  grandmother  be- 
fore she  reached  the  haven  of  bed.  First  of  all,  she  insisted 
on  knowing  what  the  young  villain  had  written  to  her  about. 
How  dared  he  ? — and  so  on.  Lucy  tried  to  pacify  her,  and 
said  she  would  tell  her  about  it  afterward.  Then  she  broke 
out  upon  herself,  saying  she  knew  it  was  nothing  to  Lucy 
what  became  of  her.  No  doubt  she  would  be  glad  enough  to 
make  her  own  terms,  marry  her  grandmother's  money,  and 
turn  her  out  of  doors.  But  if  she  dared  to  say  one  word  to 
the  rascal  after  the  way  he  had  behaved  to  her,  one  house 
should  not  hold  them  both,  and  that  she  told  her.  But  it  is 
ungracious  work  recording  the  spiteful  utterances  of  an  ill- 
used  woman.  They  did  not  go  very  deep  hito  Lucy,  for  she 
knew  her  grandmother  by  this  time.  Also  her  hope  for  her- 
self was  large  enough  to  include  her  grandmother. 


350  Guild  Court 

And  soon  as  Thomas  left  him  in  the  morning,  Mr.  Fuller 
wrote  again — only  to  say  that  he  would  call  upon  her  in  the 
evening.  He  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  ask  her  to  be  at 
home ;  nor  did  he  tell  her  anything  of  Tom's  story.  He 
thought  it  best  to  leave  that  to  himself.  Lucy  was  strongly 
tempted  to  send  excuses  to  her  pupils  that  morning  and  re- 
main at  home,  in  case  Thomas  might  come.  But  she  conclu- 
ded that  she  ought  to  do  her  work,  and  leave  possibilities 
where  alone  they  were  determined.  So  she  went  and  gave  her 
lessons  with  as  much  care  as  usual,  and  more  energy. 

When  she  got  home  she  found  that  Mr.  Fuller  had  been 
there,  but  had  left  a  message  that  he  would  call  again.  He 
was  so  delighted  with  the  result  of  his  efforts  with  Tom,  that 
he  could  not  wait  till  the  evening.  Still,  he  had  no  intention 
of  taking  the  office  of  a  mediator  between  them.  That,  he 
felt,  would  be  to  intrude  for  the  sake  of  making  himself  of  im- 
portance ;  and  he  had  learned  that  one  of  the  virtues  of  holy 
and  true  service  is  to  get  out  of  the  way  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. 

About  six  o'clock  he  went  again,  and  was  shown  into  the 
bookseller's  back  parlor,  where  he  found  both  Lucy  and  her 
grandmother. 

"  Will  you  come  out  with  me,  Miss  Burton,  for  an  hour  or 
so  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  wonder  at  you,  Mr.  Fuller,"  interposed  Mrs.  Boxall — "a 
clergyman,  too  ! " 

It  is  a  great  pity  that  people  should  so  little  restrain  them- 
selves when  they  are  most  capable  of  doing  so,  that  when  they 
are  old,  excitement  should  make  them  act  like  the  fools  that 
they  are  not. 

Mr.  Fuller  was  considerably  astonished,  but  did  not  lose  his 
self-possession. 

"  Surely  you  are  not  "afraid  to  trust  her  with  me,  Mrs.  Box- 
all  ?  "  he  said,  half  merrily. 

"I  don't  know  that,  sir.  I  hear  of  very  strange  goings-on 
at  your  church.  Service  every  day,  the  church  always  open, 
and  all  that !  As  if  folks  had  nothing  to  do  but  say  their 
prayers." 

"  I  don't  think  you  would  talk  like  that,  Mrs.  Boxall,"  said 
Mr.  Fuller,  with  no  less  point  that  he  said  it  pleasantly,  "if 
you  had  been  saying  your  prayers  lately."  "■ 

"You  have  nothing  to  do  with  my  prayers,  sir." 

"  Nor  you  with  my  church,  Mrs.  Boxall,  But  eome — don't 
let  us  quarrel.     I  don't  wonder  at  your  being  put  out  some- 


Thomas  and  Lucy.  351 

times,  I'm  sure  ;  you've  had  so  much  to  vex  you.  But  it 
hasn't  been  Lucy's  fault ;  and  I'm  sure  I  would  gladly  give 
you  your  rights  if  I  could." 

"I  don't  doubt  it,  sir,"  said  the  old  lady,  mollified.  "  Don't 
be  long,  Lucy.  And  don't  let  that  young  limb  of  Satan  talk 
you  over.     Mind  what  I  say  to  you." 

Not  knowing  how  to  answer,  without  offending  her  grand- 
mother, Lucy  only  made  haste  to  get  her  bonnet  and  cloak. 
Mr.  Fuller  took  her  straight  to  his  own  house.  The  grimy, 
unlovely  streets  were,  to  Lucy's  enlightened  eyes,  full  of  a 
strange,  beautiful  mystery,  as  she  walked  along  leaning  on  her 
friend's  arm.  She  asked  him  no  questions,  content  to  be  led 
toward  what  was  awaiting  her.  It  was  a  dark  and  cloudy 
night,  but  a  cool  west  wind,  that  to  her  feelings  was  full  of 
spring,  came  down  Bagot  Street,  blowing  away  the  winter  and 
all  its  miseries.  A  new  time  of  hope  was  at  hand.  Away  with 
it  went  all  thought  of  Thomas's  past  behavior.  He  was  repent- 
ant. The  prodigal  had  turned  to  go  home,  and  she  would 
walk  with  him  and  help  his  homeward  steps.  She  loved  him, 
and  would  love  him  more  than  ever.  If  there  was  more  joy 
in  heaven  over  one  such  than  over  ninety-and-nine  who  were 
•not  such,  why  not  more  joy  in  her  soul  ?  Her  heart  beat  so 
violently  as  she  crossed  Mr.  Puller's  threshold,  that  she  could 
hardly  breathe.  He  took  her  into  the  sitting-room,  where  a 
most  friendly  fire  was  blazing,  and  left  her. 

Still  she  had  asked  no  questions.  She  knew  that  she  was 
going  to  see  Thomas.  Whether  he  was  in  the  house  or  not, 
she  did  not  know.  She  hardly  cared.  She  could  sit  there, 
she  thought,  for  years  waiting  for  him  ;  but  every  ring  of  the 
door-bell  made  her  start  and  tremble.  There  were  so  many 
rings  that  her  heart  had  hardly  time  to  quiet  itself  a  little 
from  one  before  another  set  it  beating  again  worse  than  ever. 
At  length  there  came  a  longer  pause,  and  she  fell  into  a 
dreamy  study  of  the  fire.  The  door  opened  at  length,  and  she 
thought  it  was  Mr.  Fuller,  and,  not  wishing  to  show  any  dis- 
quietude, sat  still.  A  moment  more,  and  Thomas  was  kneel- 
ing at  her  feet.  He  had  good  cause  to  kneel.  He  did  not 
offer  to  to#ch  her.  He  only  said,  in  a  choked  voice,  "Lucy," 
fcand  bowed  his  head  before  her.  She  put  her  hands  on  the 
bowed  head  before  her,  drew  it  softly  on  her  knees,  gave  one 
long,  gentle,  but  irrepressible  wail  like  a  child,  and  burst  into 
a  quiet  passion  of  tears.  Thomas  drew  his  head  from  her 
hands,  sank  on  the  floor,  and  lay  sobbing,  and  kissing  her  feet. 
She  could  not  move  to  make  him  cease.     But  when  she  recov- 


352  Guild  Court. 

ered  herself  a  little,  after  a  measureless  time  to  both  of  them, 
she  stopped,  put  her  hancls  round  upon  his  face,  and  drew  him 
upward.     He  rose,  but  only  to  his  knees. 

"Lucy,  Lucy,"  he  sobbed,  "will  you  forgive  me  ?" 

He  could  not  say  more  yet.  She  bent  forward  and  kissed 
his  forehead. 

"I  have  been  very  wicked.  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it — 
everything." 

"  No,  no,  Thomas.     Only  love  me." 

"I  love  you — -oh  !  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart  and  soul. 
I  don't  deserve  to  be  allowed  to  love  one  of  your  hands  ;  but  if 
you  will  only  let  me  love  you  I  will  be  your  slave  forever.  I 
don't  even  ask  you  to  love  me  one  little  bit.  If  you  will  only 
let  me  love  you  ! " 

"Thomas,"  said  Lucy,  slowly,  and  struggling  with  her  sobs, 
"my  heart  is  so  full  of  love  and  gladness  that  it  is  like  to 
break.     I  can't  speak." 

By  degrees  they  grew  calmer,  but  Thomas  could  not  rest  till 
she  knew  all. 

"  Lucy,"  he  said,  "  I  can't  be  sure  that  all  you  give  me  is 
really  mine  till  I've  told  you  everything.  Perhaps  you  won't 
love  me — not  so  much — when  you  know  all.  So  I  must  tell, 
you." 

"  I  don't  care  what  it  is,  Thomas,  for  I  am  sure  you  won't 
again." 

"i"  will  not"  said  Thomas,  solemnly.  "But  please,  Lucy 
darling,  listen  to  me — for  my  sake,  not  for  your  own,  for  it 
will  hurt  you  so." 

"If  it  will  make  you  easier,  Thomas,  tell  me  everything." 

"  I  will — I  will.     I  will  hide  nothing." 

And  Thomas  did  tell  her  everything.  But  Lucy  cried  so 
much,  that  when  he  came  to  the  part  describing  his  adventures 
in  London  after  he  took  the  money,  he  felt  greatly  tempted, 
and  yielded  to  the  temptation,  to  try  to  give  her  the  comical 
side  as  well.  And  at  the  very  first  hint  of  fun  in  the  descrip- 
tion he  gave  of  Jim  Salter,  Lucy  burst  into  such  a  fit  of  laugh- 
ter, that  Thomas  was  quite  frightened,  for  it  seemed  as  if  she 
would  never  stop.  So  that  between  the  laughing  and  crying 
Thomas  felt  like  Christian  between  the  quagmire  and  the  pit- 
falls, and  was  afraid  to  say  anything.  But  at  length  the  story 
was  told  ;  and  how  Lucy  did,  besides  laughing  and  crying,  at 
every  new  turn  of  the  story — to  show  my  reader  my  confidence 
in  him  I  leave  all  that  to  his  imagination,  assuring  him  only 
that  it  was  all  right  between  them.     My  women  readers  will 


Thomas  and  Lucy.  353 

not  require  even  this  amount  of  information,  for  they  have  the 
gift  of  understanding  without  being  told. 

When  he  came  to  the  point  of  his  father  offering  to  provide 
for  them  if  he  would  give  up  Lucy,  he  hesitated,  and  said  : 

"  Ought  I  to  have  done  it,  Lucy,  for  your  sake  ?" 

"  For  my  sake,  Tom  !  If  you  had  said  for  granny's —  But 
I  know  her  well  enough  to  he  absolutely  certain  that  she 
would  starve  rather  than  accept  a  penny  from  him,  except  as 
her  right.  Besides,  I  can  make  more  money  in  a  year  than  he 
would  give  her,  I  am  pretty  sure.  So  if  you  will  keep  me, 
Tom,  I  will  keep  her." 

Here  Lucy  discovered  that  she  had  said  something  very  im- 
proper, and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  But  a  knock  came  at 
the  door,  and  then  both  felt  so  shy  that  neither  dared  to  say, 
Come  in.  Therefore  Mr.  Fuller  put  his  head  in  without  being 
told,  and  said : 

"Have  you  two  young  people  made  it  up  yet  ?" 

"  Have  we,  Tom  ?  "  said  Lucy. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Tom.     What  was  it,  sir  ?" 

Mr.  Fuller  laughed  heartily,  came  near,  put  a  hand  on  the 
head  of  each,  and  said  : 

"God  bless  you.  I  too  am  glad  at  my  very  heart.  Now 
you  must  come  to  supper." 

But  at  supper,  which  the  good  man  had  actually  cleared  his 
table  to  have  in  the  study  that  he  might  not  disturb  them  so 
soon,  Thomas  had  a  good  many  questions  to  ask.  And  be  kept 
on  asking,  for  he  wanted  to  understand  the  state  of  the  case 
between  Mrs.  Boxall  and  his  father.  All  at  once,  at  one  reply, 
he  jumped  from  his  seat,  looking  very  strange. 

"  I  must  be  off,  Lucy.  You  won't  hear  from  me  for  a  day 
or  two.  Good-bye,  Mr.  Fuller.  I  haven't  time  for  a  word," 
he  said,  pulling  out  his  watch.  "Something  may  be  done 
yet.  It  may  all  come  to  nothing.  Don't  ask  me  any  questions. 
I  may  save  months." 

He  rushed  from  the  room,  and  left  Mr.  Fuller  and  Lucy 
staring  at  each  other.  Mr.  Fuller  started  up  a  moment  after 
and  ran  to  the  door,  but  only  to  hear  the  outer  door  bang,  and 
Thomas  shout — "Cab  ahoy! "in  the  street.  So  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  take  Lucy  home  again.  He  left  her  at 
Mr  Kitely's  door. 

"Well,  miss,  what  have  you  been  about  ?"  said  her  grand- 
mother. 

"Having  a  long  talk  with  Thomas,  grannie,"  answered 
Lucy. 

23 


354  Guild  Court. 

"You  have!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Boxall,  who  had  expected 
nothing  else,  rising  slowly  from  her  seat  with  the  air  of  one 
about  to  pronounce  a  solemn  malediction. 

"  Yes,  grannie  ;  but  he  knew  nothing  till  this  yery  night  of 
the  way  his  father  has  behaved  to  us." 

"  He  made  you  believe  that,  did  he  ?  " 

"Yes,  grannie." 

"Then  you're  a  fool.  He  didn't  know,  did  he?  Then 
you'll  never  see  him  again.  He  comes  of  a  breed  bad  enough 
to  believe  anything  of.     You  give  him  up,  or  I  give  you  up." 

"  No,  I  won't,  grannie,"  said  Lucy,  smiling  in  her  face. 

"  You  or  I  leave  this  house,  then." 

' '  /  won't,  grannie. " 

"Then  X will." 

"Very  well,  grannie,"  answered  Lucy,  putting  her  arms 
round  her,  and  kissing  her.     "  Shall  I  fetch  your  bonnet  ?  " 

Grannie  vouchsafed  no  reply,  but  took  her  candle  and  went 
— up  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

JACK   OP   THE    NHSTGPO. 

My  reader  will  know  better  than  Lucy  or  Mr.  Fuller  what 
Thomas  was  after.  Having  only  a  hope,  he  did  not  like  to  say 
much,  and  therefore,  as  well  as  that  he  might  not  lose  the 
chance  of  a  night  train,  he  hurried  away.  The  first  thing  he 
did  was  to  drive  to  a  certain  watchmaker's,  to  raise  money  if 
he  could,  once  more  on  his  watch  and  on  Lucy's  ring,  which  I 
need  not  say  remained  in  his  possession.  But  the  shop  was 
shut.  Then  he  drove  to  the  Mermaid,  and  came  upon  Cap- 
tain Smith  as  he  was  emptying  his  tumbler  of  grog  prepara- 
tory to  going  to  bed. 

"I say,  captain,  you  must  let  Eobins  off  this  voyage.  I 
want  him  to  go  to  Newcastle  with  me." 

"What's  up  now  ?  Ain't  he  going  to  Newcastle  ?  And 
you  can  go  with  him  if  you  like." 

"  I  want  him  at  once.     It's  of  the  greatest  importance." 

"  You  won't  find  him  to-night,  I  can  tell  you.  You'd  bet- 
ter sit  down  and  have  something,  and  tell  us  all  about  it." 

When  Thomas  thought,  he  saw  that  nothing  could  be  done 


Lucy,  and  Mattie,  aud  Poppie.  355 

till  next  day.  Without  money,  without  Eobins,  without  a 
train  in  all  probability,  he  was  helpless.  Therefore  he  sat 
down  and  told,  the  captain  what  he  was  after,  namely,  to  find 
Eobins's  friend  Jack,  whose  surname  he  did  not  know,  and  see 
what  evidence  he  could  give  upon  the  question  of  the  order  of 
decease  in  the  family  of  Eichard  Boxall.  He  explained  the 
point  to  the  captain,  who  saw  at  once  that  Eobins's  services 
must  be  dispensed  with  for  this  voyage — except,  indeed,  he  re- 
turned before  they  weighed  anchor  again,  which  was  possible 
enough.  When  Tom  told  him  what  he  had  heard  Jack  say 
about  little  Julia,  the  captain,  pondering  it  over,  gave  it  as  his 
judgment  that  Jack,  being  the  only  one  saved,  and  the  child 
being  with  him  till  she  died,  there  was  a  probability  almost  of 
his  being  able  to  prove  that  she  outlived  the  rest.  At  all 
events,  he  said,  no  time  must  be  lost  in  finding  this  Jack. 

Mr.  Potts  having  joined  them,  they  sat  talking  it  over  a 
long  time.     At  last  Tom  said  : 

"  There's  one  thing,  I  shall  be  more  easy  when  I've  told 
you:  that  lawyer  is  my  father." 

"  God  bless  my  soul  ! "  said  Mr.  Potts,  while  Captain 
Smith  said  something  decidedly  different.  "So  you'll  oblige 
me,"  Tom  went  on,  "if  you'll  say  nothing  very  hard  of  him, 
for  I  hope  he  will  live  to  be  horribly  ashamed  of  himself." 

"  Here's  long  life  to  him  !"  said  Captain  Smith. 

"  And  no  success  this  bout ! "  added  Mr.  Potts. 

"Amen  to  both,  and  thank  you,"  said  Tom. 

Mrs.  Potts  would  have  got  the  same  bed  ready  for  him  that 
he  bad  had  before,  but  as  the  captain  was  staying  all  night, 
Tom  insisted  on  sleeping  on  the  sofa.  He  wanted  to  be  off  to 
find  Eobins  the  first  thing  in  the  morning.  It  was,  however, 
agreed  that  the  captain  should  go  and  send  Eobins,  while 
Thomas  went  to  get  his  money.  In  a  few  hours  Eobins  and 
he  were  off  for  Newcastle. 


CHAPTEE  LII. 

LUCY,    AND   MATTIE,    AND   POPPIE. 

The  Saturday  following  Tom's  departure  Lucy  had  a  whole 
holiday,  and  she  resolved  to  enjoy  it.  Not  much  resolu- 
tion was  necessary  for  that ;  for  everything  now  was  beauti- 


356  Guild  Court. 

ful,  and  not  even  her  grannie's  fits  of  ill-humor  could  destroy 
her  serenity.  The  old  woman  had,  however,  her  better  mo- 
ments, in  which  she  would  blame  her  other  self  for  her  un- 
kindness  to  her  darling  ;  only  that  repentance  was  forgotten 
the  moment  the  fit  came  again.  The  saddest  thing  in  the 
whole  affair  was  to  see  how  the  prospect  of  wealth,  and  the 
loss  of  that  prospect,  worked  for  the  temperamental  ruin  of 
the  otherwise  worthy  old  woman.  Her  goodness  had  had  little 
foundation  in  principle  ;  therefore,  when  the  floods  came  and 
the  winds  blew,  it  could  not  stand  against  them.  Of  course 
prosperity  must  be  better  for  some  people,  so  far  as  we  can 
see,  for  they  have  it ;  and  adversity  for  others,  for  they  have 
it ;  but  I  suspect  that  each  must  have  a  fitting  share  of  both; 
and  no  disposition,  however  good,  can  be  regarded  as  tem- 
pered, and  tried,  and  weather-proof,  till  it  has  had  a  trial  of 
some  proportion  of  both.  I  am  not  sure  that  both  are  abso- 
lutely necessary  to  all  ;  I  only  say  that  we  cannot  be  certain  of 
the  character  till  we  have  seen  it  outstand  both.  The  last 
thing  Mrs.  Boxall  said  to  Lucy  as  she  went  out  that  morning, 
rousing  herself  from  a  dark -hued 'reverie  over  the  fire,  was  : 

"Lucy,  if  you  marry  that  man  I'll  go  to  the  workhouse." 

"  But  they  won't  take  you  in,  grannie,  when  you've  got  a 
granddaughter  to  work  for  you." 

"  I  won't  take  a  farthing  of  my  own  property  but  as  my  own 
right."  - 

"  Thomas  won't  have  a  farthing  of  it  to  offer  you,  grannie, 
I'm  afraid.  He  quarreled  with  his  father  just  about  that,  and 
he's  turned  him  out." 

"Then  I  must  go  to  the  workhouse." 

".  And  I'll  bring  you  packets  of  tea  and  snuff,  as  they  do  for 
the  old  goodies  in  the  dusters,  grannie,"  said  Lucy,  merrily. 

"Go  along  with  you.  You  never  had  any  heart  but  for 
your  beaux." 

"There's  a  little  left  for  you  yet,  dear  grannie.  And  for 
beaux,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  I  never  had  but  one." 

So  saying,  she  ran  away,  and  up  the  court  to  Mr.  Spelt's 
shop. 

"Where's  Poppie,  Mr.  Spelt  ?"  she  asked. 

"  In  the  house,  I  believe,  miss." 

"  "Will  you  let  her  come  with  me  to  the  Zoological  Gardens 
to-day?" 

"  With  all  my  heart,  miss.  Shall  I  get  down,  and  run  up 
and  tell  her?" 

"No,  thank  you  ;  on  no  account.     I'll  go  up  myself." 


Lucy,  and  Mattie,  and  Popple.  357 

She  found  Poppie  actually  washing  cups  and  saucers,  with 
her  sleeves  tucked  up,  and  looking  not  merely  a  very  lovely, 
but  a  very  orderly  maiden.  No  doubt  she  was  very  odd  still, 
and  would  be  to  the  end  of  her  days.  What  she  would  do 
when  she  was  too  old  (which  would  not  be  till  she  was  too 
frail)  to  scud,  was  inconceivable.  But  with  all  such  good 
influences  around  her — her  father,  Mattie,  Mr.  Fuller,  Lucy 
Burton — it  was  no  wonder  that  the  real  woman  in  her  should 
have  begun  to  grow,  and,  having  begun,  should  promise  well 
for  what  was  yet  to  be.  There  is  scarcely  anything  more  mar- 
velous in  the  appearance  of  simple  womanliness  under  such 
circumstances  in  the  child  of  the  streets,  than  there  is  in  its 
existence  in  the  lady  who  has  outgrown  the  ordinarily  evil  influ- 
ences of  the  nursery,  the  school-room,  and  the  boarding-schooh 
Still,  I  must  confess  that  anything  like  other  people  might 
well  be  a  little  startling  to  one  who  had  known  Poppie  a  year 
before  and  had  not  seen  her  since.  Lucy  had  had  a  great  deal 
to  do  with  the  change  ;  for  she  had  been  giving  her  regular 
lessons  with  Mattie  for  the  last  few  months.  The  difficulty 
was,  to  get  Poppie  to  open  her  mental  eyes  to  any  information 
that  did  not  come  by  the  sight  of  her  bodily  eyes.  The  con- 
veyance of  facts  to  her,  not  to  say  of  thoughts  or  feelings,  by 
words,  except  in  regard  to  things  she  was  quite  used  to,  was 
almost  an  impossibility.  For  a  long  time  she  only  stared  and 
looked  around  her  now  and  then,  as  if  she  would  be  so  glad  to 
scud  if  she  dared.  But  she  loved  Lucy,  who  watched  long  and 
anxiously  for  some  sign,  of  dawning  interest.  It  came  at  last. 
Nor  let  my  reader  suspect  the  smallest  atom  of  satire  in  her 
most  innocent  remark  :  "Was  Jesus  a  man  ?  I  s'posed  he  wor 
a  clergyman  ! "  But  having  once  got  a  glimpse  of  light,  her 
eyes,  if  they  opened  slowly,  strengthened  rapidly.  Her  acqui- 
sition was  not  great,  that  is,  but  she  learned  to  think  with  an 
amount  of  reality  which  showed  that,  while  she  retained  many 
of  the  defects  of  childhood,  she  retained  also  some  of  its  most 
valuable  characteristics. 

The  contrast  with  Mattie  was  very  remarkable.  Poppie  was 
older  than  Mattie,  I  have  said ;  but  while  Mattie  talked  like 
an  old  woman,  Poppie  talked  like  a  baby.  The  remarks  of 
each  formed  a  strange  opposition,  both  in  manner  and  form, 
to  her  appearance,  as  far  as  bodily  growth  was  concerned. 
But  the  faces  were  consistent  with  the  words.  There  was, 
however,  a  very  perceptible  process  of  what  may  be  called  a 
double  endosmose  and  exosmose  going  on  between  them.  Pop- 
pie was  getting  wiser,  and  Mattie  was  getting  merrier.     Some- 


358  Guild  Court. 

times,  to  the  delight  of  Mr.  Kitely,  they  would  be  heard  frol- 
icking about  his  house  like  kittens.  Such  a  burst,  however, 
would  seldom  last  long  ;  for  Mrs.  Boxall  resented  it  as  unfeel- 
ing toward  her  misfortunes,  and  generally  put  a  stop  to  it. 
This  did  not  please  Mr.  Kitely  at  all.  It  was,  in  fact,  the 
only  thing  that  he  found  annoying  in  the  presence  of  Mrs. 
Boxall  in  his  house.  But  he  felt  such  a  kindly  pity  for  the 
old  woman  that  he  took  no  notice  of  it,  and  intimated  to  Mat- 
tie  that  it  was  better  to  give  up  to  her. 

"  The  old  lady  is  cranky  to-day.  She  don't  feel  comfortable 
in  her  inside,"  he  would  say ;  and  Mattie  would  repeat  the  re- 
mark to  Poppie,  as  if  it  were  her  own.  There  was  one  word  in 
it,  however,  which,  among  others  of  her  vocabulary,  making 
the  antique  formality  of  her  speech  so  much  the  more  ludic- 
rous, she  could  not  pronounce. 

"The  old  lady  don't  feel  over  comfibittle  in  her  inside  to- 
day. We  must  drop  it,  or  she'll  be  worse,"  Mattie  would 
gravely  remark  to  Poppie,  and  the  tumult  would  be  heard  no 
more  that  day,  or  at  least  for  an  hour,  when,  if  they  were  so 
long  together,  it  might  break  out  again. 

Every  now  and  then  some  strange  explosion  of  Arab  habits 
or  ways  of  thinking  would  shock  Mattie  ;  but  from  seeing  that 
it  did  not  shock  Miss  Burton  so  much,  she  became,  by  degrees, 
considerably  less  of  a  little  prig.  Childhood  revived  in  her 
more  and  more. 

"Will  you  come  with  me  to-day,  Poppie,  to  see  the  wild 
beasts  ?  "  said  Lucy. 

"  But  they'll  eat  us,  won't  they  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  child.     What  put  that  into  your  head  ?" 

"I  thought  they  always  did." 

"They  always  would  if  they  could.     But  they  can't." 

"Do  they  pull  their  teeth  out,  then  ?" 

"You  come  and  see.     I'll  take  care  of  you." 

"Is  Mattie  going?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  I'll  come." 

She  threw  down  the  saucer  she  was  washing,  dried  her  hands 
in  her  apron,  and  stood  ready  to  follow. 

"No,  no,  Poppie  ;  that  won't  do.  You  must  finish  wash- 
ing up  and  drying  your  breakfast  things.  Then  you  must  put 
on  your  cloak  and  hat,  and  make  yourself  look  nice  and  tidy, 
before  I  can  take  you." 

"  If  it's  only  the  beasts,  miss  !  They  ain't  very  particular, 
I  guess." 


Lucy,  and  Mattie,  and  Poppie.  359 

"Was  this  the  old  word  of  Chaucer  indigenous,  or  a  slip  from 
the  American  slip  ? 

"  It's  not  for  the  beasts,  but  because  you  ought  always  to  be 
tidy.  There  will  be  people  there,  of  course,  and  it's  disrespect- 
ful to  other  people  to  be  untidy." 

"  I  didn't  know,  miss.     Would  they  give  I  to  the  bears  ?  " 

"  Poppie,  you're  a  goose.     Come  along.     Make  haste." 

The  children  had  never  seen  any  but  domestic  animals  be- 
fore, and  their  wonder  and  pleasure  in  these  strange  new  forms 
of  life  were  boundless.  Mattie  caught  the  explosive  affection 
from  Poppie,  and  Lucy  had  her  reward  in  the  outbursts  of 
interest,  as  varied  in  kind  as  the  animals  themselves,  that  rose 
on  each  side  of  her.  The  differences,  too,  between  the  chil- 
dren were  very  notable.  Poppie  shrieked  with  laughter  at 
the  monkeys ;  Mattie  turned  away,  pale  with  dislike.  Lucy 
overcame  her  own  feelings  in  the  matter  for  Poppie's  sake,  but 
found  that  Mattie  had  disappeared.  She  was  standing  out- 
side the  door,  waiting  for  them. 

"  I  can't  make  it  out,"  she  said,  putting  her  hand  into 
Lucy's. 

"  What  can't  you  make  out,  Mattie  ?  " 

"  I  can't  make  out  why  God  made  monkeys."  Now,  this 
was  a  question  that  might  well  jmzzle  Mattie.  Indeed,  Lucy 
had  no  answer  to  give  her.  1  dare  say  Mr.  Fuller  might  have 
had  something  to  say  on  the  subject,  but  Lucy  could  only  reply, 
"I  don't  know,  my  dear  ;  "  for  she  did  not  fancy  it  a  part  of 
a  teacher's  duty  to  tell  lies,  pretending  acquaintance  with 
what  she  did  not  know  anything  about.  Poppie  had  no  diffi- 
culty about  the  monkeys  ;  but  the  lions  and  tigers,  and  all  the 
tearing  creatures  were  a  horror  to  her  ;  and  if  she  did  not  put 
the  same  question  as  Mattie  had  put  about  the  monkeys,  it 
was  only  because  she  had  not  yet  felt  any  need  for  understand- 
ing the  creation  of  God  in  relation  to  him.  In  other  words, 
she  had  not  yet  begun  to  construct  her  little  individual  scheme 
of  the  universe,  which,  sooner  or  later,  must,  I  presume,  be 
felt  by  every  one. as  an  indispensable  necessity.  Mr.  Fuller 
would  have  acknowledged  the  monkeys  as  to  him  a  far  more 
important  difficulty  than  the  ferocious  animals,  and  would 
probably  have  accepted  the  swine  as  a  greater  perplexity  than 
either.  Perhaps  the  readiest  answer — I  say  readiest  only,  but 
I  would  not  use  the  word  answer  at  all,  except  it  involved  the 
elements  of  solution — for  Lucy  to  give  would  have  been  : 

"They  disgust  you,  you  say,  Mattie  ?  Then  that  is  what 
God  made  them  for." 


360  Guild  Court 

A  most  incomplete,  but  most  true  and  important  reply — and 
the  readiest. 

Poppie  shouted  with  delight  to  see  the  seals  tumble  into  the 
water,  dive  deep,  then  turn  on  their  backs  and  look  up  at  her. 
But  their  large,  round,  yet  pathetic,  dog-like  eyes,  fixed  upon 
her,  made  the  tears  come  in  Mattie's  eyes,  as  they  dreamed  up 
and  down  and  athwart  the  water-deeps  with  such  a  gentle 
power  as  destroyed  all  notion  of  force  to  be  met  or  force  to 
overcome. 

Another  instance  or  two,  to  show  the  difference  between  the 
children,  and  we  shall  return  to  the  business  of  my  story. 
There  are,  or  were  then,  two  or  three  little  animals  in  a  cage 
• — I  forget  the  name  of  them :  they  believe  in  somersaults — 
that  the  main  object  of  life  is  to  run  round  and  round,  doing 
the  same  thing  with  decency  and  order — that  is,  turning  heels 
over  head  every  time  they  arrive  at  a  certain  spot. 

With  these  pretty  enough,  and  more  than  comical  enough 
creatures,  Poppie  was  exquisitely  delighted.  She  laughed  and 
clapped  her  hands  and  shouted  : 

"  Now,  now  !  Do  it  again.  There  you  are  !  Heels  over 
head.  All  right,  little  one  !  Eound  you  go.  Now,  now  ! 
There  you  are  !  "  and  so  on. 

Mattie  turned  away,  saying  only  to  Lucy : 

"  They  don't  make  anything  of  it.  They're  no  farther  on 
at  night  than  they  were  in  the  morning.  I  hate  roundabouts. 
Poor  little  things  ! " 

They  came  to  the  camel's  house,  and,  with  other  children, 
they  got  upon  his  back.  After  a  short  and  not  over  comfort- 
able ride,  they  got  down  again.  Poppie  took  hold  of  Lucy's 
sleeve,  and,  with  solemn  face,  asked  : 

"Is  it  alive,  miss  ? " 

"  How  can  you  ask  such  a  question,  Poppie  ?  " 

"  I  only  wanted  to  know  if  it  was  alive." 

She  was  not  sure  that  he  did  not  go  by  machinery.  Mattie 
gazed  at  her  with  compassionate  superiority,  and  said  : 

"  Poppie,  I  should  like  to  hear  what  you  tell  Mr.  Spelt  when 
you  get  home.     You  are  ignorant." 

At  this  Poppie  only  grinned.  She  was  not  in  the  least 
offended.  She  even,  I  dare  say,  felt  some  of  the  same  admira- 
tion for  herself  that  one  feels  for  an  odd  plaything. 

Lucy's  private  share  of  the  day's  enjoyment-  lay  outside  the 
gardens.  There  the  buds  were  bursting  everywhere.  Out  of 
the  black  bark,  all  begrimed  with  London  smoke  and  London 
dirt,  flowed  the  purest  green.     Verily  there  is  One  that  can 


Lucy,  and  Mattie,  and  Poppie.  361 

bring  a  clean  thing  out  of  an  unclean.  Eeviying  nature  was 
all  in  harmony  with  Lucy's  feelings  this  day.  It  was  the  most 
simply  happy  day  she  had  ever  had.  The  gentle  wind  with  its 
cold  and  its  soft  streaks  fading  and  reviving,  the  blue  sky  with 
its  few  flying  undefined  masses  of  whiteness,  the  shadow  of  green 
all  around — for  when  she  looked  through  the  trees,  it  was  like 
looking  through  a  thin  green  cloud  or  shadow — the  gay  songs 
of  the  birds,  each  of  which,  unlike  the  mocking-bird  within, 
was  content  to  sing  his  own  song — a  poor  thing,  it  might  be, 
but  his  own — his  notion  of  the  secret  of  things,  of  the  well- 
being  of  the  universe — all  combined  in  one  harmony  with  her 
own  world  inside,  and  made  her  more  happy  than  she  had  ever 
been  before,  even  in  a  dream. 

She  was  walking  southward  through  the  Park,  for  she 
wanted  to  take  the  two  children  to  see  Mrs.  Morgenstern. 
They  were  frolicking  about  her,  running  hither  and  thither, 
returning  at  frequent  intervals  to  claim  each  one  of  her  hands, 
when  she  saw  Mr.  Sargent  coming  toward  her.  She  would  not 
have  avoided  him  if  she  could,  for  her  heart  was  so  gay  that  it 
was  strong  as  well.  He  lifted  his  hat.  She  offered  her  hand. 
He  took  it,  saying  : 

"  This  is  more  than  I  deserve,  Miss  Burton,  after  the  abom- 
inable way  I  behaved  to  you  last  time  I  saw  you.  I  see  you 
have  forgiven  me.  But  I  dare  hardly  accept  your  forgiveness. 
It  is  so  much  more  than  I  deserve." 

"  I  know  what  it  is  to  suffer,  Mr.  Sargent,  and  there  is  no 
excuse  I  could  not  make  for  you.  Perhaps  the  best  proof  I 
can  give  that  I  wish  to  forget  all  that  passed  on  that  dreadful 
evening  is  to  be  quite  open  with  you  still.  I  have  seen  Mr. 
I  "Worboise  since  then,"  she  went  on,  regardless  of  her  own 
blushes.  "  He  had  been  led  astray,  but  not  so  much  as  you 
thought.     He  brought  me  back  the  ring  you  mentioned." 

If  Mr.  Sargent  did  not  place  much  confidence  in  the  reforma- 
tion Lucy  hinted  at,  it  is  not  very  surprising.  No  doubt  the 
fact  would  destroy  any  possibly  lingering  hope  he  yet  cher- 
ished, but  this  was  not  all ;  he  was  quite  justified  in  regarding 
with  great  distrust  any  such  change  as  her  words  implied.  He 
had  known,  even  in  his  own  comparatively  limited  experience, 
so  many  cases  of  a  man's  having,  to  all  appearance,  entirely 
abjured  his  wicked  ways  for  the  sake  of  a  woman,  only  to  re- 
turn, after  marriage,  like  the  sow  that  was  washed,  to  his  wal- 
lowing in  the  mire,  that  his  whole  soul  shrunk  from  the  idea 
of  such  an  innocent  creature  falling  a  prey  to  her  confidence  in 
such  a  man  as  Worboise  most  probably  was.     There  was  noth- 


362  Guild  Court. 

ing  to  be  said  at  present  on  the  subject,  however,  and  after  a 
few  more  words  they  parted — Lucy,  to  pursue  her  dream  of 
delight — Mr.  Sargent,  lawyer-like,  to  make  further  inquiry. 


CHAPTEE  LIU. 

IOLKEN    ON    THE    SCENT. 

Now  it  had  so  happened  that  Mr.  Molken  had  caught  sight 
of  Tom  as  he  returned  from  his  visit  to  his  mother,  and  had 
seen  him  go  into  Mr.  Fuller's  house.  His  sailor's  dress  piqued 
the  curiosity  which  he  naturally  felt  with  regard  to  him  ;  and 
as,  besides,  the  rascal  fed  upon  secrets,  gave  him  hope  of  still 
making  something  out  of  him  if  he  could  but  get  him  again  in 
his  power.  Therefore  he  watched  the  house  with  much  pa- 
tience, saw  Mr.  Fuller  go  out  and  return  again  with  Lucy, 
whom  he  knew  by  sight,  and  gave  to  the  phenomenon  what 
interpretation  his  vile  nature  was  capable  of,  concluding  that 
Tom  was  in  want  of  money — as  he  himself  generally  was — and 
would  get  something  out  of  Lucy  before  they  parted  :  he  had 
stored  the  fact  of  the  ring  in  his  usual  receptacle  for  such 
facts.  Besides,  he  had  been  in  communication  with  a  lawyer, 
for  he  could  see  well  enough  that  Mr.  Sargent  belonged  to  that 
profession,  concerning  this  very  Thomas  Worboise  :  perhaps 
he  was  wanted,  and  if  so,  why  should  not  he  reap  what 
benefit  might  be  reaped  from  aiding  in  his  capture  ?  With  all 
these  grounds  for  hope,  he  was  able  to  persevere  in  watching 
the  house  till  Thomas  came  out  alone  evidently  in  great  haste 
and  excitement.  He  accosted  him  then  as  he  hurried  past,  but 
Tom,  to  whom  the  sight  of  him  recalled  no  cherished 
memories,  and  who  did  not  feel  that  he  owed  him  any  grati- 
tude for  favors  received,  felt  that  it  would  be  the  readiest  and 
surest  mode  of  procedure  to  cut  him  at  once,  and  did  so, 
although  he  could  not  prevent  Molken  from  seeing  that  he 
knew  him,  and  did  not  choose  to  know  him.  This  added  im- 
measurably to  Molken's  determination,  for  now  his  feelings  as 
a  gentleman  were  enlisted  on  the  same  side.  He  was  too 
prudent,  if  not  too  cowardly,  to  ask  him  what  he  meant  ;  nor 
would  that  mode  have  served  his  turn  ;  it  fitted  his  nature  and 
character  better  to  lurk  and  watch.     When  Tom  got  into  a 


Molken  on  the  Scent.  363 

cab,  Molken  therefore  got  into  another,  and  gave  the  driver 
directions  to  keep  Tom's  in  sight,  but  not  to  follow  so  closely 
as  to  occasion  suspicion.  Ho  ran  him  to  earth  at  the  Mer- 
maid. There  he  peeped  in  at  the  door,  and  finding  that  he 
must  have  gone  into  the  house,  became  more  and  more  satisfied 
that  he  was  after  something  or  other  which  he  wanted  to  keep 
dark — something  fitted,  in  fact,  for  Molken  to  do  himself,  or 
to  turn  to  his  advantage  if  done  by  another.  He  entered  the 
bar,  called  for  a  glass  of  hot  gin  and  water,  and  got  into  con- 
versation with  Mr.  Potts.  The  landlord  of  the  Mermaid,  how- 
ever, although  a  man  of  slow  mental  processes,  had  instinct 
enough,  and  experience  more  than  enough,  to  dislike  the  look 
of  Molken.  He  gave  him,  therefore,  such  short  answers  as 
especially  suited  his  own  style,  refused  to  be  drawn  into  con- 
versation, and  persisted  in  regarding  him  merely  as  the 
purchaser  of  a  glass  of  gin  and  water,  hot  with.  On  such  an 
occasion  Mr.  Potts's  surly  grandeur  could  be  surpassed  by  no 
other  bar-keeper  in  England.  But  this  caution  completed 
Molken's  conviction  that  Thomas  was  about  something  dark, 
and  that  the  landlord  of  the  Mermaid  was  in  it,  too  ;  the  more 
conclusively  when,  having,  by  way  of  experiment,  mentioned 
Thomas's  name  as  known  to  Mr.  Potts,  the  latter  cunningly 
repudiated  all  knowledge  of  "  the  party."  Molken  therefore 
left  the  house,  and  after  doubling  a  little,  betook  himself  to  a 
coffee-shop  opposite,  whence  he  could  see  the  door  of  the 
Mermaid  from  the  window,  and  by  a  proper  use  of  shillings, 
obtained  leave  to  pass  as  much  of  the  night  there  as  he  pleased. 
He  thought  he  saw  Thomas,  with  a  light  in  his  hand,  draw 
down  the  dingy  blind  of  an  upper  window  ;  and  concluding 
that  he  had  gone  to  bed,  Molken  threw  himself  on  one  of  the 
seats,  and  slept  till  daylight,  when  he  resumed  his  watch.  At 
length  he  saw  him  come  out  with  another  man  in  the  dress  of 
a  sailor  like  himself,  but  part  with  him  at  the  door,  and  walk 
off  in  the  direction  of  the  city.  He  then  followed  him,  saw 
him  go  into  the  watchmaker's,  and  come  out  putting  some- 
thing in  his  trousers'  pocket,  followed  him  again,  and  ob- 
served that  the  ring,  which  he  knew,  and  which  he  had  seen 
on  his  hand  as  he  came  behind  him  from  Limehouse,  was  gone, 
as  well  as  his  watch,  which  he  had  seen  him  use  the  night 
before,  while  now  he  looked  up  at  every  clock  he  passed.  Nor 
did  he  leave  his  track  till  he  saw  him  get  into  a  train  at 
King's  Cross,  accompanied  by  another  sailor,  not  the  one  he 
had  seen  in  the  morning,  whom  he  met  evidently  by  appoint- 
ment at  the  station.     Here  the  condition  of  his  own  funds 


364  Guild  Court. 

brought  Molken  to  a  pause,  or  he  would  very  likely  have  fol- 
lowed his  wild-goose  chase  to  Newcastle  at  least.  As  it  was, 
he  could  only  find  out  where  they  were  going,  and  remain  be- 
hind with  the  hope  of  being  one  day  called  upon  to  give 
evidence  that  would  help  to  hang  him.  Nor  had  he  long  to 
wait  before  something  seemed  likely  to  come  of  all  his  pains- 
taking. For  after  a  few  days  he  had  a  second  visit  from  Mr. 
Sargent,  to  whom,  however,  he  was  chary  of  his  information 
till  bribed  by  a  couple  of  sovereigns.  Then  he  told  him  all. 
The  only  point  Mr.  Sargent  could  at  once  lay  hold  of  was  the 
ring.  He  concluded  that  he  had  recovered  the  ring  merely  to 
show  it  to  her,  and  again  make  away  with  it,  which  must  even 
in  her  eyes  look  bad  enough  to  justify  any  amount  of  jealousy 
as  to  the  truth  of  his  reformation.  Acting  on  this  fresh  dis- 
covery, he  went  to  the  watchmaker's — a  respectable  man  who 
did  business  in  a  quiet  way,  and  had  accommodated  Tom  only 
for  old  acquaintance'  sake,  not,  however,  knowing  much  about 
him.  Mr.  Sargent  told  him  who  he  was,  gave  him  his  card, 
and  easily  prevailed  on  him  to  show  the  watch  and.  the  ring. 
The  latter  especially  Mr.  Sargent  examined,  and  finding  quite 
peculiarity  enough  about  it  to  enable  him  to  identify  it  by 
description,  took  his  leave. 

Now,  had  it  not  been  for  Thomas's  foolish,  half -romantic  way 
of  doing  things,  no  evil  could  have  come  of  this.  If,  when  he 
found  that  he  had  still  a  little  time,  he  had  returned  and  fully 
explained  to  his  friends  what  his  object  was  when  he  left  them 
so  suddenly,  all  would  have  been  accounted  for.  He  liked  im- 
portance, and  surprises,  and  secrecy.  But  this  was  self-indul- 
gence, when  it  involved  the  possibility  of  so  much  anxiety  as 
a  lengthened  absence  must  occasion  Lucy,  and  Mr.  Fuller  too. 
They  had  a  right,  besides,  to  know  everything  that  he  was 
about,  after  all  that  they  had  done  for  him,  and  still  more 
from  the  fact  that  they  were  both  so  unselfishly  devoted  to  his 
best  good,  and  must  keep  thinking  about  him.  Eegarding 
his  behavior  in  its  true  light,  however,  and  coming  to  the  ob- 
vious conclusion  between  themselves  that  Tom  had  a  clew  to 
some  evidence,  they  remained  at  ease  on  the  matter — which 
ease  was  a  little  troubled  when  Lucy  received  the  following 
note  from  Mr.  Sargent.  Without  the  least  intention  of  be- 
ing unjust,  he  gave,  as  people  almost  always  do,  that  coloring 
to  his  representation  which  belonged  only  to  the  colored  me- 
dium of  prejudication  through  which  he  viewed  the  object  : 

"  Dear  Madam, — Perfectly  aware  that  I  am  building  an 


Molken  on  the  Scent.  365 

insurmountable  barrier  between  myself  and  my  own  peace,  I 
am  yet  sufficiently  disinterested  to  have  some  regard  for  yours. 
If  you  will  only  regard  the  fact  as  I  have  now  stated  it — that 
I  have  no  hope  for  myself,  that,  on  the  contrary,  I  take  the 
position,  with  all  its  obloquy,  of  the  bringer  of  unwelcome 
tidings — you  will,  however  you  may  regard  me,  be  a  little 
more  ready  to  listen  to  what  I  have  to  communicate.  From 
one  of  a  certain  gentleman's  companions,  of  such  unquestion- 
able character  that  he  refused  information  until  I  bribed  him 
with  the  paltry  sum  of  two  pounds — (I  at  least  am  open,  you 
see) — I  learned  that  he  had  again  parted  with  the  ring,  the 
possession  of  which  he  had  apparently  recovered  only  for  the 
sake  of  producing  it  upon  occasion  of  his  late  interview  with 
you.  You  will  say  such  testimony  is  no  proof  ;  but,  I  will  de- 
scribe the  ring  which  I  found  in  the  possession  of  the  man  to 
whom  I  was  directed,  leaving  you  to  judge  whether  it  is  yours 
or  not:  A  good-sized  rose-diamond,  of  a  pale  straw  color,  with 
the  figures  of  two  serpents  carved  on  the  ring,  the  head  of  each 
meeting  the  body  of  the  other  round  opposite  sides  of  the  dia- 
mond. Do  not  take  the  trouble  to  answer  this  letter,  except  I 
can  be  of  service  to  you.  All  that  it  remains  possible  for  me 
to  request  of  you  now  is,  that  you  will  believe  it  is  for  your 
sake,  and  not  for  my  own,  that  I  write  this  letter.  In  God's 
name  I  beg  that  you  will  not  give  yourself  into  the  power  of  a 
man  whose  behavior  after  marriage  has  not  the  benefit  of  even 
a  doubt  when  regarded  in  the  light  of  his  behavior  before  it. 
If  you  will  not  grant  me  the  justice  of  believing  in  my  true 
reasons  for  acting  as  I  do,  I  yet  prefer  to  bear  the  consequen- 
ces of  so  doing  to  the  worse  suffering  of  knowing  that  there 
was  one  effort  I  might  have  made  and  did  not  make  for  your 
rescue  from  the  worst  fate  that  can  befall  the  innocent. 

"  Your  obedient  servant, 

"J.  Sargent." 

Lucy  gave  a  little  laugh  to  herself  when  she  read  the  letter. 
There  was  no  doubt  about  the  ring  being  hers  ;  but  if  Thomas 
had  set  out  on  the  supposed  errand  it  was  easy  to  see  that  the 
poor  fellow,  having  no  money,  must  have  parted  with  the  ring 
for  the  sake  of  procuring  the  means  of  doing  her  justice.  But 
if  this  was  so  plain,  why  was  it  that  Lucy  sat  still  and  pale  for 
an  hour  after,  with  the  letter  in  her  hand,  and  that  when  she 
rose  it  was  to  go  to  Mr.  Fuller  with  it  ?  It  was  the  source 
alone  of  Mr.  Sargent's  information  that  occasioned  her  the 
anxiety.    If  he  had  been  as  explicit  about  that  as  he  was  about 


366  Guild  Court. 

the  ring,  telling  how  Molken  had  watched  and  followed 
Thomas,  she  would  not  have  been  thus  troubled.  And  had 
Mr.  Sargent  been  as  desirous  of  being  just  to  Thomas  as  of 
protecting  Lucy,  perhaps  he  would  have  told  her  more.  But 
there  are  a  thousand  ways  in  which  a  just  man  may  do  in- 
justice. 

My  reader  must  not  suppose,  however,  that  Lucy  really  dis- 
trusted Thomas.  The  worst  that  she  feared  was  that  he  had 
not  quite  broken  with  his  bad  companions  ;  and  the  very 
thought  of  Molken,  returning  upon  her  as  she  had  seen  him 
that  night  in  the  thunder-storm,  and  coming  along  with  the 
thought  of  Thomas,  was  a  distress  to  her.  To  be  made  thus 
unhappy  it  is  not  in  the  least  necessary  that  one  should  really 
doubt,  but  that  forms,  ideas  of  doubt,  should  present  them- 
selves to  the  mind.  They  cannot  always  be  answered  in  a 
quiet,  triumphant  fashion,  for  women  have  been  false  and 
men  have  been  hypocrites  in  all  ages  ;  and  the  mind  keeps 
seeking  the  triumphant  answer  and  cannot  find  it. 

In  something  of  this  mood,  and  yet  more  vexed  that  such 
disquietude  should  have  any  place  in  her  mind,  regarding 
it  as  vile  unfaithfulness  on  her  part,  she  rose,  and  for  the 
sake  of  hearing  Mr.  Fuller's  answer  justify  her  own  confi- 
dence, took  him  the  letter. 

Having  read  it,  the  first  words  Mr.  Fuller  spoke,  were  : 

"  The  writer  of  this  is  honest." 

"  Then  you  think  it  is  all  true  ! "  said  Lucy,  in  some  dis- 
may. 

"  What  he  tells  as  fact,  no  doubt  is  fact,"  answered  Mr. 
Fuller.  "  It  does  not  follow,  however,  that  his  conclusions 
are  in  the  least  correct.  The  most  honest  man  is,  if  not  as 
liable,  yet  as  certainly  liable  to  mistake  as  the  most  dishonest. 
It  is  indubitable  out  of  regard  for  your  welfare  that  he  has 
written  the  letter  ;  but  you  know  all  the  other  side  of  which  he 
knows  nothing.  You  don't  believe  it  yourself,  Lucy — the  in- 
ference of  Thomas's  hypocrisy,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  cried  Lucy.     "  I  do  not." 

"  Facts  are  certainly  stubborn  things,  as  people  say.  But  it 
is  equally  certain  that  they  are  the  most  slippery  things  to  get  a 
hold  of.  And  even  when  you  have  got  a  hold  of  them,  they 
can  be  used  with  such  different  designs — after  such  varying 
fashions,  that  no  more  unlike  buildings  can  be  constructed  of 
the  same  bricks  or  hewn  stones,  than  conclusions  arrived  at 
from  precisely  the  same  facts.  And  this  because  all  the  facts 
round  about  the  known  facts,  and  which  keep  those  facts  in 


Molken  on  the  Scent.  367 

their  places,  compelling  them  to  combine  after  a  certain 
fashion,  are  not  known,  or  perhaps  are  all  unknown.  For  in- 
stance, your  correspondent  does  not  know — at  least  he  does  not 
give  you  to  understand  that  he  knows — how  his  informant  ar- 
rived at  the  knowledge  of  the  facts  upon  which  he  lays  such 
stress.  When  I  recall  Thomas's  whole  bearing  and  conduct  I 
cannot  for  a  moment  accept  the  conclusions  arrived  at  by  him, 
whatever  may  be  the  present  appearance  of  the  facts  he  goes 
upon.  Facts  are  like  faces — capable  of  a  thousand  expressions 
and  meanings.  "Were  you  satisfied  entirely  with  Thomas's  be- 
havior in  the  talk  you  had  with  him  ?  " 

"Entirely.     It  left  nothing  to  wish  more,  or  different." 

' '  Then  you  have  far  deejoer  ground  to  build  upon  than  any 
of  those  facts.  They  can  no  more  overturn  your  foundation 
than  the  thickest  fog  can  remove  the  sun  from  the  heavens. 
You  cannot  prove  that  the  sun  is  there.  But  neither  can  you 
have  the  smallest  real  doubt  that  he  is  there.  You  must  wait 
with  patience,  believing  all  things,  hoping  all  things." 

"  That  is  just  what  I  have  been  saying  to  myself.  Only  I 
wanted  to  hear  you  say  it  too.  I  wanted  it  to  come  in  at  my 
ears  as  well  as  out  of  my  heart." 

When  a  month  had  passed  away,  however,  bringing  no  news 
of  Thomas  ;  when  another  month  had  passed,  and  still  he 
neither  came  nor  wrote,  hope  deferred  began  to  work  its  own 
work  and  make  Lucy's  heart  sick.  But  she  kept  up  bravely, 
through  the  help  of  her  daily  labor.  Those  that  think  it  hard 
to  have  to  work  hard  as  well  as  endure  other  sore  trials,  little 
know  how  much  those  other  trials  are  rendered  endurable  by 
the  work  that  accompanies  them.  They  regard  the  work  as  an 
additional  burden,  instead  of  as  the  prop  which  keeps  their 
burdens  from  crushing  them  to  the  earth.  The  same  is  true  of 
pain — sometimes  of  grief,  sometimes  of  fear.  And  all  of  these 
are  of  the  supports  that  keep  the  weight  of  evil  within  us,  of 
selfishness,  and  the  worship  of  false  gods,  from  sinking  us  into 
Tophet.  They  keep  us  in  some  measure  from  putting  our 
trust  in  that  which  is  weak  and  bad,  even  when  they  do  but 
little  to  make  us  trust  in  God. 

Nor  did  this  season  of  trial  to  Lucy  pass  by  without  bring- 
ing some  little  measure  of  good  to  the  poor,  disappointed,  fret- 
ful soul  of  her  grandmother.  How  much  Widdles  had  to  do 
with  it — and  my  reader  must  not  despise  Widdles  ;  many  a 
poor  captive  has  been  comforted  by  a  mouse,  a  spider,  a  rat 
even  ;  and  I  know  a  lady  who,  leading  a  hard  life  while  yet  a 
child,  but  possessing  one  little  garret-room  as  her  own,  with  a 


368  Guild  Court. 

window  that  opened  on  the  leads,  cultivated  green  things 
there  enough  to  feed  a  few  pet  snails,  to  each  of  which  she 
gave  the  name  of  one  of  her  best  friends,  great  names,  too, 
and  living  names,  so  that  I  will  not,  as  she  most  innocently 
and  lovingly  did,  associate  them  with  snails,  though  even  thus 
they  were  comforters  to  her  brave  heart ; — how  much  Widdles 
had  to  do  with  it,  I  say,  and  how  much  the  divine  help  of 
time,  and  a  sacred  deprivation  of  that  hope  in  chance  which 
keeps  man  sometimes  from  hoping  in  God,  I  cannot  tell ;  it 
was  the  work  of  the  all-working  Spirit,  operating  in  and  on  her 
mind  mediately  or  immediately.  She  grew  calmer,  and  began 
to  turn  her  thoughts  a  little  away  from  what  she  fancied  might 
have  been  if  things  had  not  gone  wrong  so  perversely,  and  to 
reflect  on  the  fact,  which  she  had  often  expressed  in  words, 
but  never  really  thought  about  before — that  it  would  be  all 
the  same  a  hundred  years  after — a  saying  which,  however  far 
from  true — although,  in  fact,  taken  logically  as  it  stands,  ab- 
solutely false — yet  has,  wrapt  up  in  it,  after  a  clumsy  fashion, 
a  very  great  and  important  truth.  By  slow  degrees  her  for- 
mer cheerfulness  began  to  show  a  little  light  over  her  hitherto 
gloomy  horizon  ;  her  eyes  became  less  turbid  ;  she  would  smile 
occasionally,  and  her  communications  with  Widdles  grew  more 
airy.  I  do  most  potently  believe  that  Widdles  was,  not  only 
in  the  similarity,  but  in  the  infinite simality  (I  am  sorry  to 
have  to  coin  a  word)  of  his  influence,  homeopathically  opera- 
tive in  working  a  degree  of  cure  in  the  troubled  nature  of  the 
old  woman. 

"Ah,  Widdles,  Widdles  !  "  she  would  say,  as  she  rubbed  the 
unavailing  Balm  of  Columbia  on  his  blue  back,  "you  and  I 
know  what  trouble  is  !     Don't  we,  old  bird  ?  " 

She  began  to  have  a  respect  for  her  own  misfortunes,  which 
indicated  that  they  had  begun  to  recede  a  little  from  the  point 
of  her  vision.  To  have  had  misfortunes  is  the  only  distinction 
some  can  claim.  How  much  that  can  distinguish  one  man 
from  another,  judge,  oh  Humanity.  But  the  heart  that  knows 
its  own  bitterness  too  often  forgets  that  there  is  more  bitter- 
ness in  the  world  than  that. 

Widdles  would  cock  his  magnificent  head  and  whiskers  on 
one  side,  and  wink  with  one  eye,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  I  be- 
lieve you,  old  girl."  Then  he  would  turn  his  denuded,  feather- 
less  back  upon  her,  as  much  as  to  add,  with  more  solemnity  : 
"  Contemplate  my  condition,  madam.  Behold  me.  Imagine 
what  I  once  was,  that  you  may  understand  the  spite  of  fortune 
which  has  reduced  me  to  my  present  bareness.     Am  I  not  a 


Molken  on  the  Scent.  369 

spectacle  to  men  and  angels  ?  And  am  I  not  therefore  distin- 
guished above  my  fellows  ? "  Perhaps,  however,  I  am  all 
wrong  in  giving  this  interpretation  to  the  actions  of  the  bird. 
Perhaps  the  influence  that  flowed  from  him  into  the  heart 
of  Mrs.  Boxall  was  really  such  as,  put  in  words,  would  amount 
to  this  :  "  Here  I  am  without  a  feather  to  hide  my  somewhat 
skinny  proportions  ;  but  what  the  worse  am  I  ?  Who  cares  ? 
So  long  as  you  don't,  I  don't.  Let's  turn  about  once  more. 
My  dancing  days  are  over ;  but  life  is  life,  even  without 
feathers." 

If  Mrs.  Boxall  had  had  her  way  with  Widdles,  he  would 
have  turned  out  a  resplendent  bird  in  spite  of  fate.  But  if 
you  had  told  her  not  to  be  distressed  at  his  nakedness,  for  God 
cared  for  Widdles,  not  as  much,  but  as  well  as  for  her,  she 
would  have  judged  you  guilty  of  something  like  blasphemy. 
Was  it  because  the  bird  was  comical,  as  even  she  admitted, 
that  you  must  not  speak  of  God's  care  in  relation  to  him  ? 
Certainly,  however,  he  sowed  not  neither  did  he  reap  ;  and  as 
for  a  barn  to  store  his  winter-grain  in — poor  Widdles  !  Yet, 
was  he  forgotten  ?  Mrs.  Boxall  was  the  last  person  who  could 
say  so,  with  her  sugar,  her  nuts,  her  unguents  of  price — 
though  the  latter,  clearly  a  striving  against  Providence,  were 
not  of  so  much  account  in  the  eyes  of  the  bird.  I  dare  say  he 
found  them  soothing,  though. 

However  all  these  things  may  have  been,  one  thing  is  cer- 
tain, that  Mrs.  Boxall  began  to  recover  her  equanimity,  and  at 
length  even  her  benevolence  toward  men  in  general — with  one 
class  exception,  that  of  lawyers,  and  two  individual  exceptions, 
those  of  old  Worboise  and  young  Worboise.  I  believe  she  had 
a  vague  conviction  that  it  was  one  of  the  malignant  class 
above  mentioned  that  had  plucked  Widdles.  "Ah,  my  poor 
Widdles!  Them  lawyers!"  she  would  say.  "You  would 
have  been  a  very  different  person  indeed,  Widdles,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  them.  But  it'll  be  all  the  same  in  a  hundred  years, 
Widdles.  Keep  up  heart,  old  bird.  It'll  all  be  over  soon.  If 
you  die  before  me,  I'll  put  you  on  a  winding-sheet  that'll  be  a 
deal  more  comfortable  than  dead  feathers,  and  I'll  bury  you 
with  my  own  hands.  But  what'll  you  do  for  me,  if  I  die  first, 
you  little  scarecrow  ?  You'll  look  about  for  me,  won't  you  ? 
That's  about  all  you  can  do.  And  you'll  miss  the  bits  of 
sugar.  Mattie,  my  dear,  mind  that  Widdles  has  his  sugar, 
and  everything  regular  after  I'm  dead  and  gone." 

She  began  to  take  to  Mattie  again,  and  even  to  make  her 
read  to  her  of  a  Sunday.     But  this,  as  of  old,  gave  rise  to 
24 


370  Guild  Court. 

much  difference  of  opinion  between  them,  which,  however, 
resulted  in  the  old  woman's  learning  something  from  the  child, 
if  not  in  the  immediate  case,  yet  in  the  next  similar  case.  For 
it  often  happens  that  a  man  who  has  opposed  another's  opinion 
bitterly  in  regard  to  the  individual  case  that  occasioned  the 
difference,  will  act  entirely  according  to  that  other's  judgment 
in  the  next  precisely  similar  case  that  occurs  ;  although  if  you 
were  to  return  to  the  former,  he  would  take  up  his  former 
position  with  an  access  of  obstinacy  in  the  reaction  from  hav- 
ing yielded  to  argument.  Something  like  this  took  place  be- 
tween Grannie  and  Mattie.  It  was  amusing  to  hear  how  the 
former  would  attribute  all  the  oddities  of  the  latter  to  the  fact 
that  she  belonged  to  the  rising  generation,  never  seeming  to 
suspect  that  Mattie  was  an  exception  to  children  in  general, 
as  peculiar  as  Widdles  in  relation  to  birds. 


CHAPTEE  LIV. 

GRANNIE   APPEALS   TO   WIDDLES. 

One  sultry  evening  in  summer,  Lucy  was  seated  at  her  piano, 
which  had  its  place  in  Mr.  Kitely's  back  parlor,  near  the  black 
oak  cabinet,  but  she  was  not  playing.  She  had  just  been 
singing  a  little  song  from  some  unknown  pen,  which  she  had 
found  with  music  of  her  father's  in  the  manuscripts  he  had 
left  her.     This  was  the  song  : 

1.  Nursing  it  ? 

0       ,  .       „  .  Brinsr  relief, 

Sunshine  fair,  Sunny  gold  ! 

In  the  air,  Look,  I  set 

On  the  earth!  Open  door 

Everywhere  Thee  before, 

Wakmg  mirth!  And  the  fold 

Stay  not  there.  0f  my  curtain  draw  agMe 

BtKearth  Enter,  enter,  golden  tide. 

Of  ray  heart  2 

In  the  dark. 

Dost  thou  mark  Summer  Wind, 

How  I  sit  Nature's  laughter  ! 

In  the  dark,  Of  sweet  smiling 

With  my  grief,  Waker,  waf ter  ! 


Grannie  Appeals  to  Widdles. 


371 


Care  beguiling, 

Toying,  wiling, 

Never  glance 

Throw  behind. 

In  the  dance 

Still  advance, 

To  the  past 

Deaf  and  blind, 

Follow  after, 

Fleet  and  fast, 

Newer  gladness, 

Careless  wind  ! 

See  the  sadness 

Of  my  mind. 

Over  river, 

Hill  and  hollow, 

Resting  never, 

Thou  dost  follow 

Other  graces, 

Lovelier  places, 

Newer  flowers, 

Leafier  bowers  : 

I  still  sit 

Nursing  it — 

My  old  sorrow — 

Night  and  morrow. 

All  my  mind 

Looks  behind, 

And  I  fret. 

Look,  I  set 

A  wide  door 

Thee  before, 

And  my  casement  open  lay  : 

Come,  and  blow  my  cares  away. 


Sunshine  fair  ! 
Of  the  saint 
Gild  the  hair  ; 
Wake  the  child, 
With  his  mirth 
Send  him  wild. 
To  the  faint 
Give  new  breath  ; 
From  the  earth 
Take  the  death, 
Take  the  dearth. 
'Tis  in  vain 
To  complain, 
And  implore 
Thee  to  glide, 
Thee  to  glow, 
In  my  mind ; 


For  my  care 

Will  nevermore 

.Rise  and  go. 

Open  door, 

Windows  wide, 

I  do  find 

Yield  no  way 

To  the  mind. 

Glow  and  play, 

Come  and  go, 

Glance  and  glow, 

To  and  fro, 

Through  the  air  ! 

Thou  would'st  say, 

As  ye  use, 

Thou  and  Wind, 

Forget  ; 

But  not  yet 

I  would  choose 

That  way  : 

Shine  and  glitter,  come  and  go  ; 

Pass  me  by,  and  leave  me  so. 

4. 
And  I  whisper 
To  the  wind, 
Evening  lisper 
In  the  curl 
Of  the  girl, 
Who,  all  kind, 
Waits  her  lover — 
Waft  and  hover, 
Linger  over 
Her  bright  color, 
Waft  her  dolor 
O'er  the  ocean, 
With  a  faint, 
Reviving  motion. 
Blow  her  plaint 
From  the  maiden 
Sorrow-laden  ; 
Take  all  grief, 
Which  to  lose 
Were  relief. 

Leave  me,  leave  me,  for  I  choose 
Still  to  clasp  my  grief. 


5. 


Sunshine  fair  ! 
Windy  air  ! 
Come  and  go, 
Glance  and  glow, 
Shine  and  show, 


372  Guild  Court' 

Waft  and  blow !  Rain-cloud  blind, 

Neither  choosing  Parted,  blent, 

Nor  refusing,  There  is  room, 

Neither  fretting  Go  and  come. 

Nor  forgetting  Loving  only 

I  will  set  To  be  lonely, 

Open  yet  To  be  sad. 

Door  and  pane.  I  repent, 

You  may  come,  Sun  and  wind, 

Or  the  rain  :  That  I  went 

•I  will  set,  You  to  find  : 

Indifferent,  I  was  rent 

Open  yet  In  my  mind. 

Door  and  pane.  Sun  and  wind,  do  what  ye  will ; 

Sun  and  wind,  I  sit  looking  backward  still. 


Lucy,  I  say,  had  finished  this  song,  and  was  sitting  silent  be- 
fore the  instrument,  with  her  hands  laid  on  the  keys,  which  had 
just  ceased  the  long-drawn  sound,  and  again  sunk  into  stillness. 
Two  arms  came  round  her  from  behind.  She  did  not  start.  She 
was  taken  by  but  not  with  surprise.  She  was  always  with  him  in 
mood,  if  not  in  thought,  and  his  bodily  presence  therefore  over- 
came her  only  as  a  summer  cloud.  She  leaned  back  into  his  em- 
brace, and  burst  into  tears.  Then  she  would  rise  to  look  at 
him,  and  he  let  her  go.  She  saw  him  rather  ragged,  rather 
dirty,  quite  of  a  doubtful  exterior  to  the  eye  of  the  man  who 
lives  to  be  respectable,  but  her  eye  saw  deeper.  She  looked 
into  his  face — the  window  of  his  being — and  was  satisfied. 
Truth  shone  there  from  the  true  light  and  fire  within.  He  did 
not  fall  at  her  feet  as  once  before.  The  redeemed  soul  stood 
and  looked  her  in  the  face.  He  put  out  his  arms  once  more, 
and  she  did  not.  draw  back.  She  knew  that  he  was  a  man, 
that  he  was  true,  and  she  was  his.  And  he  knew,  in  the  testi- 
mony thus  given  him,  that  the  last  low-brooding  rims  of 
the  cloud  of  his  shame  had  vanished  from  his  heaven,  and  that 
a  man  may  have  sinned  and  yet  be  glad.  He  could  give  God  ' 
thanks  for  the  shame,  whose  oppression  had  led  him  to  under-  * 
stand  and  hate  the  sin.  For  sin  gives  birth  to  shame,  and  in 
this  child-bearing  is  cleansed.  Verily  there  is  One,  I  repeat, 
who  bringeth  light  out  of  darkness,  good  out  of  evil.  It  comes 
not  of  the  evil,  but  out  of  the  evil,  because  He  is  stronger  than 
the  evil ;  and  He,  not  evil,  is  at  the  heart  of  the  universe. 
Often  and  often  yet  in  the  course  of  life,  would  Thomas  have 
to  be  humbled  and  disappointed.  But  not  the  less  true  was 
the  glow  of  strength  that  now  pervaded  his  consciousness.  It 
was  that  this  strength,  along  with  a  thousand  other  virtues, 


Grannie  Appeals  to    Widdles.  373 

might  be  perfected,  that  the  farther  trials  were  to  come.  It 
was  true,  so  true  that  it  was  worth  making  fact. 

But  my  young  reader,  who  delights  in  the  emotion  rather 
than  in  the  being  of  love,  will  grumble  at  these  meditations, 
and  say,  ' '  Why  don't  you  go  on  ?  why  don't  you  tell  us  some- 
thing more  of  their  meeting  ?"  I  answer,  "Because  I  don't 
choose  to  tell  you  more.  There  are  many  things,  human  tilings 
too,  so  sacred  that  they  are  better  left  alone.  If  you  cannot 
imagine  them,  you  don't  deserve  to  have  them  described.  We 
want  a  little  more  reticence  as  well  as  a  great  deal  more  open- 
ness in  the  world — the  pulpit  included.  But  "  against  stupid- 
ity the  gods  themselves  are  powerless. "  Ah  no  !  that  is  a  hea- 
then utterance.  Let  the  stupid  rage,  and  when  they  imagine, 
let  it  be  vain  things.  The  stupid,  too,  have  a  God  that  will 
slay  their  stupidity  by  the  sword  of  his  light.  The  time  will 
come  when  even  they  will  repent,  not  of  their  stupidity,  for 
that  they  could  not  help,  but  of  the  arrogance  of  fancied 
knowledge  that  increased  instead  of  diminishing  it,  and  made 
them  a  thorn  in  the  flesh  of  them  that  saw  and  would  have 
opened  their  eyes.  No  doubt  many  of  them  that  suppose  they 
see,  fancy  it  only  in  virtue  of  this  same  stupidity  ;  but  the  end 
will  show  all.  Meantime  the  tares  and  the  wheat  must  grow  to- 
gether, and  there  are  plenty  of  intellectual  tares  that  spring  from 
the  root  of  the  moral  tares,  and  will  be  separated  with  them. 

After  awhile,  when  their  feelings  were  a  little  composed, 
Thomas  began  to  tell  Lucy  all  his  adventures.  In  the  middle, 
however,  Mrs.  Boxall  returned.  She  had  most  opportunely 
been  calling  on  a  neighbor,  and  if  Thomas  had  not  learned 
this  from  Mr.  Kitely,  he  would  have  sent  for  Lucy  instead  of 
going  in  as  he  did.     They  heard  her  voice  in  the  shop. 

"  Don't  tell  grannie  anything  about  it  yet,"  said  Lucy. 
"  She's  much  quieter  in  her  mind  now,  and  if  we  were  to  set 
her  off  again  it  would  only  do  her  harm.  Any  thing  certain 
she  has  a  right  to  know,  but  I  don't  think  she  has  a  right  to 
know  all  that  you  are  trying  to  do  for  her.  That  is  your  busi- 
ness. But  you  mustn't  mind  how  she  behaves  to  you,  Tom 
dear.     She  thinks  you  and  your  father  all  one  in  the  affar." 

When  the  old  lady  entered  she  saw  at  a  glance  how  th.ugs 
were  going ;  but  she  merely  gave  a  very  marked  sniff,  and 
retreated  to  her  chair  by  the  window.  She  first  seated  herself, 
and  then  proceeded  to  take  off  her  bonnet  and  shawl.  But 
she  could  not  keep  silent  long,  and  the  beginning  of  speech  as 
well  as  of  strife  is  like  the  letting  out  of  water. 

"Thomas,"  she  said — for  people  of  her  degree  of  education 


374:  Guild  Court. 

became  more  familiar  in  their  address  when  they  are  angry — 
"is  this  room  mine  or  yours  ?" 

"Grannie,"  said  Lucy,  "Thomas  has  nothing  to  do  with 
it.  He  was  away  from  home,  I  assure  you,  when — when — 
things  went  wrong." 

"  Very  convenient,  no  doubt,  for  both  of  you  !  It's  nothing 
to  you,  so  long  as  you  marry  him,  of  course.  But  you  might 
have  waited.  The  money  would  have  been  yours.  But  you'll 
have  it  all  the  sooner  for  marrying  the  man  that  turned  your 
grandmother  into  the  street.  Well,  well  !  Only  I  won't  sit 
here  and  see  that  scoundrel  in  my  room." 

She  rose  as  she  spoke,  though  what  she  would  or  could  have 
done  she  did  not  know  herself.  It  was  on  Lucy's  lips  to  say 
to  her — "  The  room's  mine,  grannie,  if  you  come  to  that,  and 
I  won't  have  my  friend  turned  out  of  it."  But  she  thought 
better  of  it,  and  taking  Thomas's  hand,  led  him  into  the  shop. 
Thereupon  grannie  turned  to  "Widdles  for  refuge,  not  from  the 
pain  of  Thomas's  presence,  but  from  the  shame  of  her  own 
behavior,  took  him  out  of  his  cage,  and  handled  him  so  roughly 
that  one  of  the  three  wing  feathers  left  on  one  side  came  off 
in  her  hand.  The  half  of  our  ill-temper  is  often  occasioned 
by  annoyance  at  the  other  half. 

Thomas  and  Lucy  finished  tbeir  talk  in  a  low  voice,  hidden 
in  the  leafy  forest  of  books.  Thomas  told  her  all  about  it 
now  ;  how  he  wanted  to  find  the  man  Jack  Stevens,  and  how 
Eobins  and  he  had  followed  him  to  Lisbon,  and  found  him 
there  and  brought  him  home  ;  how  he  had  had  to  part  with 
her  ring  as  well  as  his  own  watch  for  money  to  start  them  in 
their  search,  and  how  even  then  they  had  had  to  work  their 
passage  to  Lisbon  and  back.  But  if  the  representation  she 
and  Mr.  Fuller  had  given  him  of  the  state  of  the  case  was  cor- 
rect, he  said,  there  could  be  no  doubt  but  Jack's  testimony 
would  reverse  the  previous  decision,  and  grannie  would  have 
her  own. 

"  I  can't  help  being  rather  sorry  for  it,"  concluded  Tom  ; 
"  for  it'll  come  to  you  then,  Lucy,  I  suppose,  and  you  will 
hardly  be  able  to  believe  that  it  was  not  for  my  own  sake  that 
I  went  after  Jack  Stevens.  I've  got  him  safe,  and  Eobins  too, 
at  the  Mermaid.  But  I  can't  be  grand  and  give  you  up.  If 
you  were  as  rich  as  Miss  Coutts,  I  couldn't  give  you  up — 
though  I  should  like  to,  almost,  when  I  think" of  the  money 
and  my  father." 

'•'Don't  give  me  up,  Tom,  or  I'll  give  you  up,  and  that 
would  be  a  bad  job  for  me." 


Grannie  Appeals  to  Widdles.  375 

Then  they  made  it  clear  to  each  other  that  nothing  was  fur- 
ther from  the  intention  of  either  of  them. 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  next,  Lucy  ?  You  must  tell  me  the 
lawyers  that  conducted  your  side  of  the  case." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  can't  ask  Mm  to  do  anything  more." 

"  Who's  him,  Lucy  ?  " 

"Mr.  Sargent." 

"  Sargent — Sargent — I  think  I  have  heard  the  name.  He's 
a  barrister.  If  you  are  not  satisfied  with  him,  the  firm  you 
employed  will  speak  to  another." 

"  He  did  everything,  Thomas.     But — " 

Lucy  hesitated.  Thomas  saw  that  she  was  blushing.  Per- 
haps it  was  the  consciousness  of  his  own  unworthiness  that 
made  him  jealous. 

"  Oh,  very  well,  Lucy !  If  you  don't  want  to  tell  me,  of 
course — " 

"  Thomas  !  Thomas  !  Can't  you  trust  me  yet  ?  I  have  trust- 
ed you,  Thomas." 

He  had  the  grace  to  feel  ashamed  of  himself  at  once. 

"  Forgive  me,  Lucy,"  he  said.  "  I  was  wrong.  Only  I 
love  you  so  ! " 

"  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it,  Tom,  dear." 

"  You  shan't  tell  me  a  word  about  it.  I  can  guess.  But 
what  are  we  to  do  ? " 

"  I  will  go  and  consult  Mr.  Morgenstern." 

"  There  is  no  time  to  lose." 

"Come  with  me  to  his  office,  then,  at  once.  It  is  not  far  to 
Old  Broad  Street." 

They  set  out  instantly,  found  Mr.  Morgenstern,  and  put  him 
in  possession  of  the  discovered  evidence.  He  was  delighted 
with  the  news. 

"We  must  find  Sargent  at  once,"  he  said. 

Lucy  began  to  stammer  out  some  objection. 

"  Oh  !  I  know  all  about  that,  Lucy,"  said  he.  "But  this 
is  no  time  for  nonsense.  In  fact  you  would  be  doing  the  hon- 
est fellow  a  great  wrong  if  you  deprived  him  of  the  pleasure  of 
gaining  his  case  after  all.  Indeed,  he  would  feel  that  far 
more  than  your  refusal  of  him.  And  quite  right,  too.  Sar- 
gent will  be  delighted.  It  will  go  far  to  console  him,  poor 
fellow." 

"  But  will  it  be  right  of  me  to  consent  to  it  ? "  asked 
Thomas,  with  hesitation. 

"It  is  a  mere  act  of  justice  to  him,"  said  Mr.  Morgenstern  ; 
"and,  excuse  me,  I  don't  see  that  you  have  any  right  to  bring 


376  Guild  Court 

your  feelings  into  the  matter.  Besides,  it  will  give  Mrs.  Box- 
all  the  opportunity  of  making  him  what  return  she  ought.  It 
will  be  a  great  thing  for  him — give  him  quite  a  start  in  his 
profession,  of  which  he  is  not  a  little  in  want.  I  will  go  to 
him  at  once/'  concluded  Mr.  Morgenstern,  taking  his  hat. 


CHAPTER  LV. 

GUILD    COUET   AGAINST. 

I  WILL  not  linger  over  the  last  of  my  story.  Mr.  Sargent 
was  delighted  at  the  turn  affairs  had  taken — from  a  business 
point  of  view,  I  mean.  Tbe  delight  was  greatly  tempered 
by  other  considerations.  Still  he  went  into  the  matter  mind 
and  soul,  if  not  heart  and  soul,  and  moved  for  a  fresh  trial  on 
the  ground  of  fresh  evidence.  Mr.  Worboise  tried  the  plan  of 
throwing  discredit  on  the  witness  ;  but  the  testimony  of  Rob- 
ins and  Thomas  was  sufficient  to  remove  any  influence  that 
course  might  have  had.  The  former  judgment  was  rescinded, 
and  the  property  was  Mrs.  Boxall's. 

Mr.  Worboise  and  Mr.  Sargent  met  in  the  lobby.  The  lat- 
ter, in  very  unlawyer-like  fashion,  could  not  help  saying  : 

"You  would  have  done  better  to  listen  to  reason,  Mr.  Wor- 
boise." 

"  I've  fought  fair,  and  lost,  Mr.  Sargent ;  and  there's  an 
end  of  it." 

The  chief  consolation  Mr.  Worboise  now  had  was  that  his 
son  had  come  out  so  much  more  of  a  man  than  he  expected, 
having,  indeed,  foiled  him  at  his  own  game,  though  not  with 
his  own  weapons.  To  this  was  added  the  expectation  of  the 
property,  after  all,  reverting  to  his  son  ;  while,  to  tell  the 
truth,  his  mind  was  a  little  easier  after  he  was  rid  of  it,  al- 
though he  did  not  part  with  it  one  moment  before  he  was  com- 
pelled to  do  so.  He  made  no  advances  however,  toward  a 
reconciliation  with  Thomas.  Probably  he  thought  that  lay 
with  Thomas,  or  at  least  would  wait  to  give  him  an  oppor- 
tunity of  taking  the  first  step.  My  reader  would  doubt- 
less have  expected,  as  I  should  myself,  that  he  would  vow 
endless  alienation  from  the  son  who  had  thus  defeated  his 
dearest  plans,  first  in  one  direction,  then  in  another;  but 


Guild  Court  Again.  377 

somehow,  as  I  have  shown,  his  heart  took  a  turn  short  of  that 
North  Pole  of  bitterness. 

There  is  nothing  to  wonder  at  in  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Boxall 
should  know  nothing  yet  of  her  happy  reverse  of  fortune. 
They  had,  as  I  have  said  already,  judged  it  better  to  keep  the 
fresh  attempt  from  her,  so  that  if  by  any  chance  it  should  fail, 
she  might  not  suffer  by  it,  and,  in  any  case,  might  be  pro- 
tected from  the  wearing  of  anxiety  and  suspense. 

"Let's  give  grannie  a  surprise,  Lucy,"  said  Thomas,  having 
hurried  to  her  with  the  good  news. 

"  How  do  you  mean,  Tom  ?  We  must  be  careful  how  we 
break  it  to  her.     Poor  dear  !  she  can't  stand  much  now." 

"Well,  my  plan  will  just  do  for  that.  Get  Mrs.  Whatsher- 
name,  over  the  way — her  old  crony,  you  know — to  ask  her  to 
tea  this  evening.  While  she's  away,  Kitely,  Spelt,  and  I  will 
get  all  the  things  back  into  the  old  place.  There's  nobody 
there,  is  there  ?  " 

"No,  I  believe  not.  I  don't  see  why  we  shouldn't.  I'll 
run  across  to  the  old  lady,  and  tell  her  we  want  grannie  out  of 
the  way  for  an  hour  or  two." 

She  took  care,  however,  not  to  mention  the  reason,  or  their 
surprise  would  have  been  a  failure. 

There  were  no  carpets  to  fit,  for  the  floor  had  been  but  par- 
tially covered,  showing  the  dark  boards  in  the  newest  fashion. 
Before  Mrs.  Boxall's  visit  was  over,  the  whole  of  her  household 
property  had  been  replaced — each  piece  in  the  exact  position 
it  used  to  occupy  when  they  had  not  yet  dreamed  of  fortune 
or  misfortune.  Just  as  they  were  getting  anxjous  lest  she 
should  come  upon  the  last  of  it,  Lucy,  bethinking  herself,  said 
to  the  bookseller : 

"Mr.  Kitely,  you  must  lend  us  Widdles.  Grannie  can't 
exist  without  Widdles." 

"I  wish  you  hadn't  proposed  it,  miss  ;  for  I  did  mean  to 
have  all  the  credit  of  that  one  stroke  myself.  But  Widdles  is 
yours,  or  hers  rather,  for  you  won't  care  much  about  the  old 
scaramouch." 

"  Not  care  about  him  !  He's  the  noblest  bird  in  creation — 
that  I  know,  Mr.  Kitely.  He  does  not  mind  being  bald,  even, 
and  that's  the  highest  summit  of  disregard  for  appearances 
that  I  know  of.     I'm  afraid  I  shouldn't  take  it  so  quietly." 

"  It  don't  much  matter  nowadays,"  said  Mr.  Kitely. 
"  They  make  such  wonderful  wigs." 

"  But  that's  ten  times  worse,"  said  Lucy. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you'd  go  with  a  bare  poll,  miss,  so 


378  Guild  Court. 

be  that  Providence  was  to  serve  you  the  same  as  Widdles  ? — 
which  Heaven  forbid  ! " 

"  I  wouldn't  bear  a  wig  anyhow." 

"What  would  you  do,  then,  miss  ?  Black  and  polish  it  ?" 

"  What  nonsense  we  are  talking  ! "  said  Lucy,  after  a  good 
laugh.  "  But  I'm  so  happy  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  Let's  make 
a  wig  for  Widdles,  and  grannie  will  think  her  bears'  grease  has 
made  hair  grow  instead  of  feathers." 

Whether  this  proposal  was  ever  carried  out,  I  do  not  know. 
But  Widdles  followed  the  furniture  ;  and  when  grannie  came 
home  she  found  that  all  her  things  were  gone.  She  stared. 
Nobody  was  to  be  seen.  But  all  were  watching  from  behind 
the  defences  of  Mr.  Kitely's  book-shelves. 

"  Mr.  Kitely,"  she  called  at  last,  in  a  voice  that  revealed 
consternation. 

The  bookseller  obeyed  the  summons. 

"I  didn't  expect  it  of  you,  Mr.  Kitely,"  she  said,  and  burst 
into  tears. 

This  quite  upset  the  conspirators.  But  Mr.  Kitely  kept 
them  back  as  they  were  hurrying  forward. 

"  We  thought  we  could  do  a  little  better  for  you,  you  see, 
ma'am.  It  was  a  confined  place  this  for  the  likes  of  you.  So 
Miss  Lucy  and  I  made  bold  to  move  your  things  up  to  a  place 
in  the  court  where  you'll  have  more  room." 

She  said  nothing  but  went  up  stairs.  In  both  rooms  she 
found  utter  emptiness.     Mr.  Kitely  followed  her. 

"  There's  not  a  stick  left,  you  see,  ma'am.  Come  and  I'll 
take  you  home." 

"  I  didn't  think  you'd  have  turned  me  out  in  my  old  age, 
Mr.  Kitely.     But  I  suppose  I  must  go." 

It  was  with  considerable  exercise  of  self-denial  that  the  book- 
seller refrained  from  telling  her  the  truth,  but  he  could  not 
spoil  the  young  people's  sport.  He  led  her  up  to  the  door  of 
her  own  house. 

"  No,  Mr.  Kitely.  I'll  never  set  foot  in  that  place  again. 
I  won't  accept  it  from  no  one — not  even  rent-free." 

"But  it's  your  own,"  said  Kitely,  almost  despairing  of  per- 
suasion, and  carried  beyond  his  intent. 

"  That's  just  why  I  won't  go  in.  It  is  mine,  I  know,  but  I 
won't  have  my  own  in  charity." 

"  Thomas,"  whispered  Lucy,  for  they  were'following  behind, 
. ' '  you  must  tell  her  the  good  news.  It  will  help  her  over  her 
prejudice  against  you.  Old  people  are  hard  to  change,  you 
know." 


■    Guild  Court  Again.  379 

" Mrs.  Boxall,"  said  Thomas,  going  up  to  her,  "this  house 
is  your  own." 

"Go  away,"  returned  Mrs.  Boxall,  energetically.  "Isn't  it 
enough  that  you  have  robbed  me  ?  Will  you  ofter  me  my  own 
in  charity." 

"  Do  listen  to  me,  grannie,"  pleaded  Thomas. 

"  I  will  not  listen  to  you.  Call  a  cab,  Lucy.  We'll  drive  to 
the  nearest  workhouse." 

Lucy  saw  it  was  time  to  interfere. 

"What  Thomas  says  is  true,  grannie,  if  you  would  only 
listen  so  him.  Every  thing's  changed.  Thomas  has  been 
over  the  seas  to  find  a  man  who  was  in  uncle's  ship  when  it 
went  down.  He  has  given  such  evidence  that  the  property  is 
yours  now." 

"  I  don't  care  ;  it's  all  a  trick.  I  don't  believe  he  went  over 
the  seas.     I  won't  take  any  thing  from  the  villain's  hand." 

"Villains  don't  usually  plot  to  give  away  what  they've  got," 
said  Lucy. 

"  But  it's  Thomas  Worboise  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  as  I've  told  you  a 
hundred  times,  grannie.  He's  gone  and  slaved  for  you,  and 
that's  all  the  thanks  you  give  him — to  stand  there  on  the 
stones,  refusing  to  take  what's  your  very  own." 

The  light  was  slowly  dawning  on  grannie's  confused  mind. 

"Then  you  mean,"  she  said,  "that  all  my  son  Richard's 
money — " 

"Is  yours,  grannie,"  said  Lucy  and  Thomas  in  a  breath. 

"Only,"  added  Lucy,  "you've  spoiled  all  our  bit  of  fun  by 
being  so  obstinate,  grannie." 

For  sole  answer  the  old  woman  gave  a  hand  to  each  of  them, 
and  led  them  into  the  house,  up  the  wide  oak  staircase,  and 
along  the  passage  into  the  old  room,  where  a  fire  was  burning 
cheerfully  just  as  in  the  old  time,  and  every  article  of  furni- 
ture, book-case,  piano,  settle,  and  all,  stood  each  in  its  old 
place,  as  if  it  had  never  been  moved. 

Mrs.  Boxall  sat  down  in  her  own  chair,  "like  one  that  hath 
been  stunned,"  and  for  some  moments  gave  no  sign  of  being 
conscious  of  what  was  going  on  around  her.  At  length  a  little 
noise  at  her  ear  attracted  her  attention.  She  looked  around. 
On  the  edge  of  the  little  table  which  had  always  been  beside 
her  easy-chair,  stood  Widdles,  the  long  feathers  of  whose 
wings  looked  like  arms  that  he  had  tucked  under  his  coat-tails, 
only  there  was  no  coat. 

"  Poor  Widdles  ! "  said  the  old  woman,  and  burst  into  tears. 


380  Guild  Court. 

CHAPTER  LVI. 

WOUND   UP  OE  EU2ST  DOWN. 

Thomas  resumed  his  place  in  the  office,  occupying  his  old 
stool,  and  drawing  his  old  salary,  upon  which  he  now  support- 
ed himself  in  comfort  and  decency.  He  took  a  simple  lodging 
in  the  neighborhood,  and  went  twice  a  week  in  the  evening  to 
see  his  mother.  In  doing  so,  he  did  not  run  much  risk  of 
meeting  his  father,  whom  he  neither  sought  nor  avoided, 
for  he  was  seldom  home  before  midnight.  His  mother 
now  lived  on  these  visits  and  the  expectation  of  them. 
And  she  began  not  only  to  love  her  son  more  and  more  for 
himself,  but  to  respect  him.  Indeed,  it  was  chiefly  the  re- 
spect that  increased  her  love.  If  he  was  not  converted,  there 
must  be  something  besides  conversion  that  was  yet  good,  if 
not  so  good.  And  she  thought  she  might  be  excused  if  she 
found  some  pleasure  even  in  that.  It  might  be  a  weakness — 
it  might  be  wrong,  she  thought,  seeing  that  nothing  short  of 
absolute  conversion  was  in  the  smallest  degree  pleasing  in  the 
sight  of  God  ;  but  as  he  was  her  own  son,  perhaps  she  would 
be  excused,  though  certainly  not  justified.  As  Thomas's  per- 
ception of  truth  grew,  however,  the  conversations  he  had  with 
her  insensi  bly  modified  her  judgment  through  her  feelings, 
although  she  never  yielded  one  point  of  her  creed  as  far  as 
words  were  concerned. 

The  chief  aid  which  Thomas  had  in  this  spiritual  growth, 
next  to  an  honest  endeavor  to  do  the  work  of  the  day  and 
hour,  and  his  love  to  Lucy,  was  the  instruction  of  Mr.  Fuller. 
Never,  when  he  could  help  it,  did  he  fail  to  be  present  at 
daily  prayers  in  St.  Amos's  Church.  Nor  did  he  draw  upon 
his  office  hours  for  this  purpose.  The  prayers  fell  in  his  din- 
ner hour.  Surely  no  one  will  judge  that  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
though  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  spent  in  seeking  the  presence 
of  that  Spirit  whereby  all  actions  are  fitted  to  the  just  meas- 
ure of  their  true  end,  was  disproportioned  by  excess  to  the 
time  spent  in  those  outward  actions  of  life,  the  whole  true 
value  of  which  depends  upon  the  degree  to  which  they  are 
performed  after  the  mind  of  that  Spirit.  What  gave  these 
prayers  and  exhortations  a  yet  more  complete  fitness  to  his 
needs  was  their  shortness.  No  mind  could  be  wearied  by 
them.  I  believe  it  very  often  happens  that  the  length  of  the 
services,  as  they  are  called,  is  such  that  they  actually  disable 
the  worshiper  in  no  small  degree  from  acting  so  after  them  as 


Wound  Up  or  Bun  Down.  381 

alone  can  make  them  of  real  worth  to  his  being  :  they  are  a 
weakness  and  not  a  strength,  exhausting  the  worshiper  in 
saying  "  Lord,  Lord/'  instead  of  sending  him  forth  to  do  his 
will.  The  more  he  feels,  the  less  fit  is  he,  and  the  less  fitting 
it  is,  to  prolong  the  expression  of  his  devotion.  1  believe  this 
is  greatly  mistaken  in  ah  public  services  that  I  know  anything 
about,  which  involve,  in  their  length,  an  entire  departure 
from  good  old  custom,  not  good  because  old,  but  so  good  that 
it  ought  to  have  been  older,  and  needs  now  to  be  raised  from 
the  dead  that  it  may  be  custom  once  more.  Thomas  did  not 
enjoy  his  dinner  less,  and  did  his  work  far  more  thoroughly 
and  happily  because  of  this  daily  worship  and  doctrine — a 
word  which,  I  think,  is  never  used  by  St.  Paul  except  as  mean- 
ing instruction  in  duty,  in  that  which  it  is  right  to  do  and 
that  which  it  is  right  not  to  do,  including  all  mental  action  as 
well  as  all  outward  behavior. 

It  was  impossible  under  the  influence  of  such  instruction 
that  Tom  should  ever  forget  the  friends  who  had  upheld  him 
in  the  time  of  his  trouble.  He  often  saw  Captain  Smith,  and 
on  one  occasion,  when  he  had  a  fortnight's  holiday — the  only 
one  before  his  marriage — he  went  a  voyage  to  Jersey  in  his 
brig,  working  his  passage  as  before,  but  with  a  very  different 
heart  inside  his  blue  jacket.  The  Pottses,  too,  he  called  on 
now  and  then  ;  and  even  the  unamiable  Jim  Salter  came 
round  to  confess  his  respect  for  him,  when  he  found  that  he 
never  forgot  his  old  mates. 

As  soon  as  Thomas  resumed  his  stool  in  the  counting-house 
Mr.  Wither  resigned  his,  and  went  abroad. 

Mrs.  Boxall  of  course  recovered  her  cheerfulness,  but  her 
whole  character  was  more  subdued.  A  certain  tenderness  to- 
ward Lucy  appeared,  which,  notwithstanding  all  her  former 
kindness  was  entirely  new.  A  great  part  of  her  time  was  spent 
in  offices  of  good-will  toward  Widdles.  She  always  kept  her 
behavior  to  Mr.  Stopper  somewhat  stately  and  distant.  But 
he  did  his  best  for  the  business — for  it  was  the  best  for  himself. 

My  story  leaves  Mr.  Spelt  and  Mr.  Kitely  each  happy  in  a 
daughter,  and  Mattie  and  Poppie  growing  away  at  their  own 
history. 

One  evening,  when  Tom  was  seated  with  his  mother,  who 
had  again  recovered  so  far  as  to  resume  her  place  on  the  coach, 
his  father  came  into  the  room.  Tom  rose.  His  father,  with- 
out any  greeting,  said  : 

"Keep  a  lookout  on  that  Stopper,  Tom.  Don't  let  him 
have  too  much  of  his  own  way." 


382  Guild  Court. 

"But  I  haye  no  authority  over  him,  father." 

"  Then  the  sooner  you  marry  and  take  the  business  into 
your  own  hands  the  better. 

"  I'm  going  to  be  married  next  week." 
_  "  That's  right.     Make  Stopper  junior  partner,  and  don't 
give  him  too  large  a  share.     Come  to  me  to  draw  up  the  ar- 
ticles for  you." 

"  Thank  you,  father.  I  will.  I  believe  Mrs.  Boxall  does 
mean  to  make  the  business  over  to  me." 

"  Of  course.  Good-night,"  returned  Mr.  Worboise,  and  left 
the  room  without  speaking  to  his  wife. 

From  this  time  Tom  and  his  father  met  much  as  before  their 
quarrel.  Tom  returned  to  the  house  for  the  week  before  his 
marriage,  and  his  father  made  him  a  present  of  an  outfit  for 
the  occasion. 

"  Oh,  Tom  !  I  can  hardly  believe  it,"  said  Lucy,  when  they 
came  home  from  church. 

"I  don't  deserve  it,"  was  all  Tom's  answer  in  words. 

After  their  wedding-journey  they  went  back  to  the  old  house 
in  Guild  Court,  in  which  they  had  had  one  or  two  more  rooms 
fitted  up.  Their  grandmother,  however,  is  now  urging  them 
to  move  to  some  suburb,  saying  she  is  quite  willing  to  go  with 
them.  "  And  I  don't  believe  you  will  have  any  objection 
either — will  you,  old  Widdles  ?  "  she  generally  adds. 


THE  END. 


